


Your Latest Trick

by lacygrey



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Genderfluid Loki (Marvel), Loki Has Issues, Loki and Reader have history, POV Second Person, Thor: The Dark World, Tumblr: imagine-loki
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2018-10-17 17:54:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 64,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10599156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacygrey/pseuds/lacygrey
Summary: INFINITY WARDOESN'T HAPPEN - NEITHER DOESTHOR RAGNAROKLong after everyone has stopped talking about Loki and his misdemeanors, his failed attempt to take over Midgard and his punishment, you meet him at a party.Follows the storyline of The Dark World, then turns AU.Original Prompt: Imagine Loki undressing you slowly, entirely by magic, only touching you with his eyes.First chapter can be read as a oneshot.





	1. How to open doors with just a smile

The single most embarrassing moment of your life took place in this very room. Its an old cringing memory that wouldn’t even have entered your head, if you hadn’t just seen a familiar silhouette.  
  
If there’s someone you never thought you’d see here tonight, it’s Loki. This is a celebration - the return of the forces from Vannaheim - and among the revelers and music, is where where you feel the most at home. You’re in your element. And _everyone_ is here. But Loki? You heard that Odin had thrown him into the dungeons. An ironic fate, little more than a year after all Asgard had mourned his loss.  
   
Yet there he is. He’s standing near a crowd of other partygoers and you catch his eye, he smiles in recognition but does not approach. There’s a peal of laughter from your left and you glance over to see Fandral, your ex, in animated conversation with a curvaceous blond woman. She finds him highly amusing or would like him to think so. That’s great, he clearly finds himself highly amusing too. What do you care?  
  
 When you turn back, Loki is gone. But he was surely there and you find yourself somehow glad about it.  
   
A little later, you notice him again. He hasn’t seen you yet so you watch him for a while. He’s wearing an understated but well cut moss green jacket over a darker shirt. All the fabrics are soft-looking without a hint of leather, metal, or anything of a warrior - unlike those around him. Everyone is eating and he’s a short way away, behind another table, not the kings table, but a quiet corner.  So he’s been allowed out, but is not honored, only tolerated. Most are weary from battle but happy, Loki is drinking it all in.  It’s just a party. They’re not rare in Asgard, but this one crackles like a eager fire with happy voices, fine food and the glow of friendship. Loki looks on as if mesmerized but you don’t see him speak with the people around him. You wonder how long he’s been free… days, hours? You want to know what happened to him, not just the rumors. You want to hear it from him.  
  
They shift the tables aside and there’s dancing.  This is the best part. The room becomes a haze of faces and finery as people move to the floor. You always have many willing partners, but not Loki.  He wouldn’t ever want to dance with you again, surely. You will never forget the time, that terrible humiliating time, when you were both much younger and had to dance first at such a dinner.  You trod all over his feet, which raised a few laughs, but then you succeeded in tripping him up. He would have fallen over had you not held onto him; except then you both went careening into the dessert table together in front of the whole company, your fall only broken by a sumptuous cream cake that you landed over the pair of you. Which apart from the laughter and round of applause was kind of a shame, because you did like that dress. Thereafter, Loki shunned the dance floor and you shuffled, wore long skirts to hide your treacherous feet and didn’t dare dance too close to your partners. You dance much better now and never want for partners, and not only for dancing.  
  
Not Loki though. It was never like that between you. Still you wonder what happened to him. So recently, you thought you’d never see him again. You can still feel the hole it punched in you when they told you he’d fallen from the Bifrost. A hole that had no reason to be.  
  
Across the ever-moving swarm of dancers you catch a glimpse of him again, this time with Thor, or rather not with Thor.  Thor walks right past Loki and totally ignores him. It’s horrible. Alright, so you knew they had some conflict or other offworld connected with Loki’s imprisonment, but to see him blank his brother like that just makes you angry… Why let him out to treat him like that. Then Loki’s eyes meet yours instead.  
  
The way he looks at you is familiar.  You know that look on a man, but you’d never expected to see it on him and certainly not aimed at you. It’s unexpected but not unwanted. You won’t ignore him. You move his way, driven by the wish to ask, to know, to touch, to comfort, but the crowd swirls and he’s lost again.  
  
“And we now present the star attraction.” Volstagg booms, rising to his feet, his eyes toward the kitchens.  “A hand for the chef.” he cries and starts clapping. Everyone imitates him and clapping and whoops rise from the crowd as two cooks carry in the cake. Nowadays they don’t bring the deserts out until after the dancing - a precaution against the kind of messy accident you and Loki caused that one time, and a recurrent reminder.  
  
The dessert is a mountain of cream and fruits from the far reaches of the kingdom and beyond, decorated with firecrackers that light up peoples’ faces on its way to the main table. It’s lavish, enough to feed everybody here and more. But when you lift your gaze from the shining slopes of sugar and cherries Loki is there, just the other side.  This time you meet and hold his regard. There’s a moment of complicity, the embarrassing memory you share, then its chased by something else entirely. That look there’s no mistaking. He licks his lips and you know he’s not thinking about food and then, under the weight of his gaze, neither are you.  
  
He’s watching you for your reaction and you wonder what you must look like to him. Tonight you chose a midnight blue robe. Though some might say sophisticated, its perhaps a little serious for you. That’s why you paired it with a shock pink scarf to brighten it up.  
  
 Its sure that you’ve changed, as has he, since the cake incident. His metamorphosis from boy to man is complete. Its something you’ve wondered about perhaps more than you should.  
Between your adolescent wars and him growing into something quite beautiful, you never became close again. You can still see the prankster child in him, it’s easier for you to see that than a criminal. Loki has turned out very well indeed. It happened sometime when your attention was elsewhere, probably on Fandral. That too was over a year ago. One you’re proud you haven’t wasted on moping.  
  
Loki’s still looking at you, staring even, not caring who else sees. Your heart thumps and you don’t know where to look. At him? That’d be giving a definite yes. At the cake again, with its eternal associations? At everyone else? No one has noticed your confusion. You look at Loki again, he’s smiling softly, gazing at you and only you. He gives a sign with his head for you to follow him and slips away toward the door, with just a brief glance over his shoulder to see if you are coming.  
  
He could charm anyone with words if he wanted to.  But he’s not speaking now, just looking and it’s enough. Something tells you you will not be getting the answers to your questions tonight.  
  
In the palace corridors, he moves fast and you have to chase him through winding passages and up and down stairs.  He leads you on a route you’ve never known about until you burst out into area of the royal apartments.  How did you get here without meeting a single guard?  
  
At what must be his room, there’s a heavy oak door with a face of a scowling goblin in the very center. Loki gets up close to the door and grins wide-mouthed into the goblin’s face. Without him saying a word or touching the woodwork, he door swings open. Beyond, there is only darkness.  
  
You follow him into the chamber as he beckons with that soft smile, stepping backwards, not letting his eyes off you. With a snap of his fingers a soft glow starts to grow from a lamp in a corner, another hanging from the ceiling and a third sitting on a desk by the far wall. If there was a color of light you could eat, then it’s this one.  It coats everything it touches in a peachy-gold haze - pale things particularly -  the counterpane of the bed, some flowers on a low table and the pages of a book lying open on the desk, but particularly Loki’s skin.  It must be magic.

“Stay right there.” His smile seems as much for himself as for you. One filled with amusement at his own cleverness. It’s not the moment to be remembering this, but some of the things you’ve heard about him aren’t good at all.  He was in the dungeon for a reason.  But you won’t think of that now. This is also the Loki you once knew grown into a beautiful man who is about to make love to you.  
  
He reaches for you with one arm and you step toward him, ready for him to make good on the promise burning in his eyes. But he doesn’t touch you, at least not directly. With a casual flick of his fingers he tugs off your scarf.  He’s not actually holding it, but directing it with his magic.  It dances in the air around your head before brushing past your face, the sheer of the silk tickling your cheek and sending a shudder down your spine. All the time he never breaks eye contact.  
  
The scarf caresses you a last time and floats down to the bed, where it rolls itself up like a contented cat.  
  
“Now then.” He makes a complicated gesture, weaving his long fingers between one another, and the laces at the back of your gown untie themselves and release you.  The dress starts to shift and pull itself from your shoulders.  
  
Loki himself remains fully dressed, while you feel more and more exposed by the second, your dress obeying his command and abandoning you, pooling on the floor at your feet. He circles you, inspecting every inch of your bare flesh. Still he won't make his move. And how you long for it.  
  
Yet the waiting has something undeniably erotic about it - to be there, under his gaze, in just a petticoat. You feel a caress over your bare arm - the scarf again - it snakes around you, lets its tassels tickle you before trailing one edge across your lips. A ghost of a kiss. You sigh.  
  
Loki smirks.  
  
“Come here.” you say. You want it to be commanding, but it comes out more like a whine.  
  
He takes a step forward and with a great gesture spreading both arms he splits the petticoat clean in two and it falls from you body.  
  
“On the bed,” he whispers.  It’s quietly spoken but nonetheless a command. You step backwards, never taking your eyes off him and he follows. He wets his lips as you saw him do downstairs and there’s is no doubt to his intentions, you go to free the last undergarments but he tuts and they simply vaporize, leaving you naked and breathless, your calves against the bed.  He only needs to push and you would fall there. You feel your heartbeat thudding in all the places you want him to touch you. What is he waiting for?  You reach to pull him down with you but he steps back.  
  
“No. Oh no no no no.” The grin is back. “We’ll do this my way. Lie down.”  
  
Still watching, on your guard, you comply.  
  
Over on the desk, the quill posed in its stand gives a little jump as though someone was tugging at it and it was reluctant to move. Then it takes flight and you watch, mind full of questions as it wends its way towards you.  
  
“What! You’re going to write on me?”  
  
“Is that what you fancy?” Loki raises an eyebrow. “I’ll have to remember that. No. I was thinking of something that leaves less of a trace.”  The feather strokes up your naked leg, barely touching… but enough for you to feel it. You shiver.  You have no idea what he’s playing at.  
  
“I want to know how sensitive you are.”  
  
You swallow, and he must hear it.  He’s going to drag this out.  But you won’t beg.  You won’t lower yourself. You want his lips on yours and all over you, if possible. How can he show such restraint?  If he wants you he will come to you and it’s for sure that he wants you. You can see how a faint flush has spread over his fine cheekbones.  
  
The feather comes back, sliding up your leg and over your bare hip, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Then it draws a circle around your navel and flies up to alight on your right breast. You gasp. Then it twists and starts flicking over your left nipple with its soft side. You body reacts instantly as a flood of desire gathers deep inside you, the tiny movement sending surges of warmth though the whole of you. Loki looks on knowingly but still doesn’t approach. What is this? Why is he doing it? And worse, why are you letting him?  
  
Because its good and because you can see that your reactions, bared for him, to see are sparking ones in him. Even from here you see that he’s starting to lose his composure.  Soon he will come to you.  
  
You sink back into the mattress, your head on the pillows, watching for the sign that he will pounce.  The feather continues its relentless task, pausing only to swap sides. One nipple is  peaked and hard, the other only just waking. You sense your breathing growing heavy and the dampness between your legs.  
  
He should be here with you. Instead of doing it all by magic.  The show-off! Then your view of him is blocked as your scarf rises above you like a snake.  
  
“Come here, Loki.” Your voice has gone rough and breathy. And shouldn’t that be more enticing. You rise to go to him but the scarf moves also, diving to entwine your feet in a second.    
  
“No.” you cry. You wont have him bind you.  
  
He waves his hand and the scarf releases you instantly, but then starts twining up your leg.  
  
“Take it easy, good things come to those who wait.” He says with a laugh. Already your heart is pumping fast just with the thought of what’s coming. You want his mouth, not his words. And you want to give him something in return.  
  
“Come here." you plead.  "Don’t tease.”  
  
He takes one silent step toward you.  
  
“I can give you everything you need from right here.” The confidence in his voice I enough to still you.  
  
The quill resumes its work and the scarf runs itself softly around your legs edging higher on each pass, flitting between them. Exploring.  
  
You lie back and watch him, little shivers running over you as the seconds pass. His composure. You’d so like to break that. Exchange your places. See him on the point of begging.  
  
The scarf finds your most sensitive spot and starts a back and forth rhythm, sliding between you legs, as he looks on, captivated. You want to complain. That’s your new scarf. How dare he.  But the movement is just too good that you don’t want to distract him from his work. As the friction builds, you moan. It’s fast becoming very good indeed. You look at him imploringly. The feather quickens and Loki talks in time with the movements.  
  
“I’m going make you come without even laying a hand on you.”  
  
You want to yell at him, beg him to join you on the bed, but this seems more important to him. And its starting to get difficult to form words anyway. You’re caught between wanting him in the bed right now and simply just wanting him to continue this exquisite stimulation. But, just as you think you will climax simply from this abuse of everyday things, the quill flutters away and the scarf stills. It unpeels itself slowly, as if with regret. You’d second that. You lay there panting. The scarf is sodden, dark from the wetness it drew from you. Even if it survived, it's not as if you could ever bear to wear it again. This has to be hands down the most debauched thing you’ve ever done. Loki looks decidedly pleased with himself.  
  
Then he raises his hands in front of him and turns them as though rolling something between them that you can’t see. He seems concentrated, not on you but on what he’s doing. There’s a ball of shimmering orange light forming in the space between his hands. Its center swirls with patterns of yellow and red as though it were constantly forming from the inside. He bounces it from one palm to the other. You wonder what it does, though you think you can guess.  
  
He tosses it over to you but, shaky as you are, you can’t catch it and it rolls over your stomach leaving a trail of heat. It circles your belly before bouncing back to his hands where it burns brighter an instant, lighting up his face. He gives you a mischievous grin, then he throws it back. It settles on you now, and you can feel your body start to absorb it, bringing a host of sensations. It sends a fire through you and, though you long for his real touch, you think now that you won’t actually need it.  
  
The ball of light must be made from pure pleasure. This is no animal sexual act, this is magic.  This is why Loki doesn’t touch you - he knows something better. He made this. He’s a genius. You try to focus on him but your vision is getting blurry with the wave of heat. The warmth spreading inside you makes you buck and stretch. You fling out an arm and it grazes your breast, and it’s so sensitive that it’s enough to send a shudder though the whole of you. Can this get any better? You can feel your climax building and crave it, but neither do you want this to end, ever. You don’t try to stop the sounds that escape you - whimpers, moans - you are beyond shame for this, only the feeling matters and the intensity just keeps on growing.  
  
“Loki,” you cry, one part in desperation that he come to you, one part in helpless gratitude.  
  
“Right over here.” He replies with a chuckle. He’s half way across the room.  
  
Your limbs would not hold you up if you tried to go to him now. You can no longer control the movements as your body twists and waves of pleasure break over you. You can’t resist what you know is coming and caress one swollen nipple yourself until the explosion wracks through you, drawing senseless words from your tongue, every one an enamoured distortion of his name.  
  
Finally, the storm calms. You want to draw him to you, want to give him this too, but you have neither the strength nor the coordination. And Loki, though he’s moved closer, stays just out of reach. His eyes are dark, his skin flushed and though your judgement may be more than a little skewed, you think you catch a flicker of wonder cross his expression. You can’t get to him and that seems to amuse him. There’s an aloofness too, despite his obvious arousal. You want to make him lose that composure. Want to see him lying here as conquered as you feel.  
  
Your breathing slows as you lay weak, floating in a cocoon of the afterglow. He comes to sit by you.  
  
But you’re not quite spent and the idea comes to you that you can grab him if you’re quick.  There’s no plan, just the need get him on to the bed and see if he has any actual desire beyond toying with you. You refuse to let him have all the control.  
  
So you throw yourself up to grasp him and drag him down. But, to your horrified surprise, instead of the longed for connection, you pass straight though him and your lunge almost lands you on the floor.  
  
Loki’s projection steps back and gives a peal of laughter. But the smile he gives you, the instant before he disappears, is more sad than mocking.  
  
You continue to stare incredulous at the empty space. You can’t believe it. He was never there. You lay down again, sated, but exhausted and alone in this strange place. The truth is clear. You’ve been played.  
  
But to what end?  
  
You close your eyes and sigh. Your throat is sore from the cries and moans he tore from you and that is real enough. So is the latent heat in your limbs and warm hum in you head that stretches right down into core of you. That was better that any real sex you’ve had in a very long time. As for Loki’s reasons, in this very instant, you can’t bring yourself to care.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you think.
> 
>  
> 
> April '18: Now with chapter titles!


	2. Theres a joke here somewhere and it's on me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone wants some answers

You dose, body still humming, knowing you’ll have to move soon. But, even if it was a hoax, a near dream, and you could be in all manner of trouble if you got caught here, you still want to savor it.  
  
He just did something incredible to you, and without the use of half the senses. Now you long for his missing touch and strive to remember his scent.  
  
_Way back when you were kids, there was a time when you all went camping, as far out as you could go and still be in the palace grounds. You recall waking in the damp dawn under the breath-damp canvas with your nose tucked under Loki’s chin, breathing him in and feeling the deep slow thud of his heart.  You were virtually stuck to one another. But that’s hardly surprising with eight of you crammed tight in the tent.  You remember being aware of crossing a boundary. Friends shouldn’t sleep that close. Not even by accident. So you tried to extract yourself and get outside before anyone else woke up. It was difficult pulling away and picking your was across the sleeping forms. But, once free and a blanket stuffed in your place, you quietly forgot about it. Until now._  
  
But you can't quite place it.  What you really want is the real thing to snuggle up to right now.  Instead you're alone here, trying to spot the tells.  
Not only did Loki never touch you, but you never saw him touch anyone else at the party either, nor did you see him eat.  He didn’t get close enough to you, not until those last moments, for you to guess he was not the true Loki, only a projection. So, of course you couldn’t kiss or hold one another as lovers should. Those missing things worsen the feeling of being left alone here.  He didn’t even bid you farewell.  
  
Where is the real Loki anyway? You have a strong suspicion about that, and it’s not a happy one.  
  
You rise, regretfully, and dress in what clothing remains unscathed.  
  
Loki’s chamber is a lonely unlived-in place now you see it without him. It has only a few relics of a life. The open book and the flowers create an illusion, while in fact this room is disused. They must have been put there by someone else but Loki. Frigga perhaps. You hate the flowers, they make you think of a tomb. But they’re evidence that someone comes here and will again.  This is no place to tarry.  
  
You do your best to arrange the bed, putting back the crumpled covers. There’s not much to hide. If you didn’t still feel your body purring, you would have thought you’d imagined everything.  
  
Before you go though, you take a look around.  There’s not much here, but there’s the book, heavy and large enough to cover most of the desk, its thick pages covered with immaculate looped handwriting in a dark ink with a copper sheen. It’s a journal, lying comfortably open at about midway.  You start to read but then you notice the date and the first words. ‘I, Loki, King of Asgard…’  
  
Your heart speeds up and your eyes skip over the words in a jumble. ‘…have conceived the perfect solution for Jotunheim. With this one stroke I will have outdone both Father and Thor.’ You can’t focus to read. He wrote this the day they foiled the invasion; the day he fell from the Bifrost.  
  
But what does that mean, ‘with this one stroke’? More important, where is Loki now? Could it be that he still is in the dungeons, but somehow still able to work his magic?  Well you’re hardly going to report him for it and let someone know what he just did with you.  
  
You’ve been on the receiving end of Loki’s pranks before, but  nothing resembling this. Though far from unpleasant you would prefer if your friends and family never knew how he tricked you.    
  
No one need ever know.  
  
You know though, and so, somewhere, does Loki. The niggling ‘why?’ of it has crept into your thoughts alongside the softness left by the pleasure and the emptiness of this place.  
  
As Loki grew up, his pranks grew with him, as did the mayhem he caused. You have indeed heard all manner of stories about Loki.  But to you, many of the worst of them seemed no more than that - just stories. As unlikely as… Well, what just happened.  
  
At the door you struggle to smile. Instead you grimace and twist your face every way in frustration until the magic complies and lets you out.  
                                              
  
  


 

  
You go swimming. It’s a normal kind of thing you’d do. Just you and some friends out where the summer pools are fed by the waterfalls. There’s enough conversation to up your mood but not so much that the others can tell that something’s off.  You learn casually that nobody saw you leave last night. What’s more, nobody mentions having seen Loki at the party.  It’s as though you were the only one who could see him.  
  
When you step into the sun-warmed water and look up into the glistening droplets from the waterfall, you feel as though you could let go of last night and your strange adventure. But though the sensation of the water all around you brings you back to yourself, the undercurrent of unease doesn’t leave you. It doesn’t even start to fade.  
  
It’s as though he were watching you. As though, even though he never touched you, every inch of your skin was covered in magic fingerprints.  
  
As you dry off, you feel the welcoming warmth of two of Asgard’s suns through the trees, but a tiny voice inside reminds you that this is something Loki may never feel again.  If indeed he’s still in the dungeons.  
  
Then a real voice interrupts.  
  
“Where were you anyway last night?” Uh oh. So you were missed.  
  
“I met someone.”  You give a quirk of a smile. This is the perfect answer. You need say no more. These are your friends, they know about your conquests.  
  
“That explains things.” It’s affectionate but you can’t help but wonder if anyone saw something - like you sneaking off with a convicted criminal.  
  
“What?” You laugh to cover your nervousness.  
  
“Just thought you were quiet… So, what were they like?”  
  
You hesitate.  
  
“Tall dark and powerful.”  
  
It’s no lie.

 

  
                                                  
  
  
  
  
Why did he do it?  
  
The question continues to eat at you for the next few days. The most likely answer has already come to you but is too upsetting to contemplate – Loki is still in the dungeons and he used the projection to see life above ground again, to spend an evening as he would have done were he not imprisoned.  
  
This doesn’t explain why he chose you though. Up until now nothing like that has ever happened between you, the cake fiasco put paid to much chance of that. Or so you thought.  
  
And now? He stripped you naked and looked on as he gave you one of the most powerful orgasms of your life. Then he just laughed and disappeared… before you could reciprocate. If anyone here is the loser then it surely isn’t you.  
  
So it’s not as if he took advantage, except of your ignorance of his magic and your latent fascination with him.  Perhaps he bewitched you, but you were willing. And, if you’re honest, the idea of that thrills you.  
  
But then perhaps Loki’s duped other girls the same way.  If they are all as reluctant to talk as you are, then no one will ever know and he’ll be making the rounds for millenia. Loki has outdone himself.  
  
But part of you feels stubbornly sorry for the Loki who is still the prankster of your childhood who you miss, as well as the man you want right now.  
  
You try to distract yourself by reorganizing your dressing room, always good for a pick-me-up. You have a vast collection of dresses of all colors and styles and so you start looking for a new way to order them and best match them with your accessories. It’s pleasantly absorbing. But, as your worries fade, a dull sadness replaces them.  You won’t call it pity. It’s tinged with want and that you know is selfish.  It was a one night stand. Why don’t you treat it like any other? You know the score.  
  
Because you know it was like no other and because Loki is hardly someone you only just met.  
   
You set about sorting the dresses by season and then by color, but your hand stops when it reaches a red one, not the red dress, that one didn’t survive the collision with the cake. But it’s near identical. It’s one you’ve never actually worn, as it’s a color you tend to avoid now. But still you hang onto it.  
  
Then your eyes fall on the treacherous pink scarf, lying where you hastily tossed it. You grab it and shove it to the back of the darkest drawer then shut it and its joyous color away from sight. Then you sit back on your heels and let out a long sigh. This is a bad time to be alone here.  All these clothes have associations for you, most are happy, many romantic, sensual even, though none of the latter compare with what Loki did.  
  
You have the feeling you could be in big trouble.

  
  
  
  
  
  
   
You know where they are, the dungeons, you always have.  You even climbed down there once on a dare many years ago, but found only dank empty corridors and silent rooms. Your childhood passed at a time of peace when such places lay unused.  
  
So you know where they are but don’t like to think about them.  In your mind, the old images remain: empty cells and echos. But you know that isn’t true anymore.  You wonder why you did not seek out Loki sooner, before he sought you.  
  
As you descend the stairs, it gets colder the further you get from the reach of daylight. It’s not been long since the guards have passed by, you’ve studied them - like a spy - and know that you have half an hour to get in and out undetected before the next team makes its rounds.  Half an hour to see if Loki is really there, beyond that you haven’t got a clue what you will do or say if you find him.  
  
You just need to know.  
  
What irony. Back then, that dare had been Loki’s: Sneak behind the guards, get to the dungeons and bring back a trophy to prove it. In the end, only Loki found a trophy, a key. He’d used it to lock Thor up down there for a laugh and Sif had to go and rescue him. It seems a long time since you’ve had that kind of camaraderie with the princes and their friends, such games ended with the coming of age and the distance only grew when you split with Fandral.  
   
There is light and sound now, and an growing aroma of something cooking. But the closer you get to the source, the more unappetizing it smells.  
  
As you step out from the stairwell, there are no guards to be seen.  So far so good.  You hurry forward. Your desire to know the truth outweighing your fear.  
  
Though you planned how to avoid the guards seeing you, you hadn't counted on the inmates. They know you're something different and, despite your careful footsteps, your passage is announced by jeers and wolf whistles. To make matters worse, you have no idea where to find Loki, if indeed he's here. The place is a labyrinth and nothing like you remember.  This is a working prison. Guards can never be far. And you’ve no plausible excuse for being here. You press on because the prisoners would be just as noisy if you went back. You’re starting to wish you knew another way back up to the surface, but any other stairs might lead other places you wouldn't want to find yourself.  
  
After a while all the cells you come to are uninhabited. You should perhaps give up - only a little longer and you'll have used up your time.  But then you see something move in a cell a little further on, there's no light on there and, as you move forward, the air turns cold.  Before you can get close enough for a proper look inside, a figure surges forward and throws itself right at you, only to be caught by the cell’s forcefield, which crackles in complaint as he hits it. You shrink back, there's only an invisible wall of energy holding back a huge blue form.  
  
You stand stock still and terrified as the man, because he has the form of a man, glares at you with ghastly glistening red eyes.  
  
You don't need to ask what he is.  This is worse than your childhood nightmares, worse than the story book villains who you could conveniently trap when you closed the cover. This great man glows with blueness, skin powered with ice crystals that make him look solid as stone.  
  
In the shadows of the cell you see another of the creatures lying on a primitive bed. He moans at his companion about the noise. With everything you’ve heard about the Jotuns it doesn’t surprise you that they are not morning people.  
  
The first frost giant is amused at your fear and laughs. As he does, his breath spreads in plumes about him and ice starts forming on the force field until it clouds and his face disappears from view.  
  
You have to get out of here. If Loki is not here, then all the better for him, but without scouring every corner then you’ll never know.  
  
It’s then you see a light beyond another row of empty cells.  
  
Even from here you can see its inhabited, clearly by someone they wanted to keep away from all the rest.  
  
Though you’ve thought so much about him, the reality is a still a shock.  He’s pacing, it makes you think of him moving about in his own room upstairs, except here the space is smaller, too tight around him, too brightly lit and open to the rest of the prison.  Even with his regal poise, he looks like a caged predator.  He’s clothed much the same way as he was the night of the party - soft colors and fabrics - begging to be touched.  The wretchedness of the situation hits you. If Odin’s sentence stands, then he will remain here forever.  
  
He hasn’t seen you, not even with the noise from his neighbors. You’re nearly up to the glass when Loki glances over in your direction.  
  
His body betrays his surprise and then a tenseness grips him.  He strides over to the window of his cell and you step closer to him.  
  
“What are you doing here?”  
  
There’s nothing of the man he was the other night in his demeanor, no soft seductiveness, no humor.  
  
“I came to see if…”  
  
“Begone.” He waves his hand as if to dismiss you and turns as though much more interested in something else, though n his line of sight there is only an empty corner of the cell.  
  
“You shouldn’t be here. Get out.”  Glancing back at you and throwing you a fiery look. He throws his arms up as though to shoo you away.  
  
“Go on. Run off home, Or you’ll miss the next party.”  
  
It's a slap in the face. You are stunned to silence and he stares you down.    
But you’ve come this far. So you stand your ground and imitate his stance, his glare.  
  
“Not before you tell me why.”    
  
He is beautiful in the flesh, and it shines though despite his apparent distaste of you.  
  
He shakes his head in disbelief.  
  
“How did you get here? He tuts like you were a naughty child. You’ve no guard with you, so clearly you didn’t ask nicely - not that they would have let you.  I’m supposed to be kept alone. Its part of my punishment…” the last word he spits.  
  
You don’t move an inch and, though he’s only yards away, it’s as though he’s looking at you from across a vast gulf.  
  
“So. This ‘unofficial’ visit?” he continues. “Could it be about our little secret?” He flashes you a wicked grin, but it fades fast as though it sours his mouth.    
  
“Why did you do it?” You cross your arms. Inside you are crumbing. This is going worse than you ever could have imagined.  You feel like you are accusing him. Its not what you wanted, but then again… if he only did it as a prank…  
  
He’s looking at the floor, arms folded like you, and then he laughs, bitter and humorless.  
  
“Because I could.” His words are cold and matter of fact, the unspoken ones hang between you. He couldn’t do anything else, he’s physically trapped.  The illusion only lets him glimpse a world he’s now forbidden. He took something by trickery against a world that denies him. That something was you - little more than a trophy, a symptom of his anger at his predicament. A way he could still laugh at Asgard. Your blood runs cold and you feel anger twitching in your stomach.  
  
Then you look at him, really look at him and at his cell. It’s too small for his towering form, and this is all he knows the length of all his days and possibly will ever know. You wouldn’t just be angry with such a situation, you’d be half crazy by now.  
  
“I can’t do true magic outside these four walls.  Only parlor tricks.”  He gives you a derisive smirk.  
  
You loath how you are caught between hate and pity. And you would not have him see you pity him.  Better that he see you outraged.  
  
He doesn’t give you the time.  
  
“Guard!” he calls. And you flinch, looking left and right.  
“Guard!” he cries louder and laughs as your panic reveals itself. The last glimpse you get of him before you hear footsteps and set off at a run is Loki shaking his head and grinning before throwing himself lazily across the chaise longue.  
  
You run, retracing your steps. Back past the frost giants again.  
  
“You choose a strange place for wooing, traitor.” One calls out in a deep cracked voice and you’ve no idea what he means.  
   
You’ve no time to wonder about it anyway. You run, driven by fear and shame at your mistake in coming here.  What did you expect from Loki, really.  
  
You hear the heavy tread of armored feet approaching and dodge into the shadow of an alcove behind a narrow spiral stair.  
  
They pass and you wait until the only sound left is the thudding of your heart. It’s not the right stairway but it will do. You’ll take your chances with where it leads.  You climb at a run, chanting a mantra of insults against Loki in your head. But deep inside there’s a pang as you burst out into daylight and leave him behind.  
  
 “Whoa whoa whoa there. Wait what were you doing down there, miss?”  
  
Its a guard. Not one who followed you up from the dungeons, thankfully, but one who was patrolling the battlements.  
  
“I lost my croquet ball.” You smile as though embarrassed. “It thought it rolled down there.”  The lie comes easy and he doesn’t question it. You might be out of breath from running but you are still dressed finely as though you were simply playing on the lawn. You look the part.  
  
“Well that there’s the way to the dungeons you don’t want to be going down there, miss”  
  
“Okay.” you say and smile. Lying comes surprisingly easy when you need it.  
  
He turns away.  You walk slowly a few paces and then start running again.  
  
You’re at the eastern extremity of the palace, a long way from your quarters.  You try to calm yourself to slow your pace, but your heart is going now and it drives you.  You can feel tears coming and you want to reach your chamber before they escape. You beg not to meet anyone you know, anyone who would see how upset you are. You take the back ways and put on a polite veneer for any servants you pass.  
  
When you near your apartments, you sprint the final yards of the journey, long skirts or no.  Then, after having bolted the door behind you, you sink down on the other side, the wood to your back, sides heaving, berating yourself and feeling the world’s biggest fool.  
  
But before the tears can come, you sense a movement in the room and stiffen.  
  
Surely the servants would be gone at this hour. You can’t see anyone.  
  
But no, there’s definitely a presence. You feel goosebumps forming despite the heat from your run and rise slowly to your feet, ready to flee once more.  
  
“Hello Darling,” says an unmistakable voice.  
  
  
  
  



	3. Stay in my arms if you dare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PWP

  
He’s somewhere in the room. Somewhere you can’t see.  Or could he be invisible this time as well as intangible?  
  
Then you see it. One long, pale, bare foot pointing over the arm of the settee. He must be lying there, the rest of him hidden.  
  
As you watch, he reaches his fingers over the top and then his face appears. He's grinning. This can’t be possible.  
  
He’s been here, waiting, probably the moment you ran from his presence downstairs.  
  
He props his chin on one hand.  
  
“Aren’t you pleased to see me?” There’s no trace of his anger. He quirks his lips upwards. You’re dumbstruck.  
  
He lays down again, resting his head on the other armrest now and letting his hair hang down.  It almost touches the floor.  
  
At the other end he flexes his toes.  
  
It's like he was really there, but you know better now.  
  
“You can’t just come to my chamber uninvited.” Its not supposed to be cold but you're still smarting from his words downstairs and you've no idea why he should suddenly change like this.  
  
“Well neither should you _come to my chamber_ uninvited.” If he’s still angry he’s hiding it well. He sounds more amused. You don’t know what’s safer. “I’ll go away again if you want.”    
  
He knows very well that’s not what you want.  
  
You have a strong suspicion that he’s naked. Especially when he sits up and you get a flash of bare shoulder. It shouldn’t set your heart racing.  Nothing can happen here. Nothing real at least. But your body won’t listen. You’ve already half forgotten his harsh words and are eager for the soft ones, the cajoling ones, the magic ones.    
  
Most of him is hidden by the settee, but then he stands… He’s not naked, but wearing only a pair of close-fitting pants. He has his back to you and strands of glossy dark hair fall over his pale back. It's already more of his skin than you’ve ever seen. He glances at you over his shoulder, a question in his eyes, and you are torn between the hold of his gaze and feasting your eyes on the rest of him.  
  
His torso tapers perfectly to the point where the fabric covers his hips and then continues to hug his body as far down as you can see. He watches you looking him over. After everything he said in the dungeons, you thought you’d never see him again. Yet here he is, giving you that quirk of the lips that makes your breath catch.  
  
With a snap of his fingers the pants melt into thin air. You try to contain your surprise. You didn’t think he’d do it. You thought he’d continue to tease.  
  
He still has his back to you and you admire the fine curve of his ass, but remind yourself that its only an illusion, who’s to say he hasn’t embellished himself. But then, who cares… either way, the result is beautiful and you can’t stop staring.  
  
“Could you say for sure that I haven’t already cast a spell on you?”  
  
It’s possible, probable even. But by now you are all expectation, caught up in the promise of what you see. You truly don’t care.  
  
“No.”  
  
He laughs and it’s carefree, happy even. You want desperately to touch him now or at very least to tell him that. It’s the honest truth, and a compliment, but you know those words would hurt. You know better than to remind him of the impossible.  
  
But then he says “Come here,” naturally, as though you really were about to touch.  
  
You move closer until you are mere inches behind him but do not chance the caress you so sorely want to give.  
  
“I want…” you start.  
  
“Look at my face.” He cuts in before you can betray the illusion. “Only my face.” he adds, more darkly, and that makes it desperately difficult not to let your eyes stray elsewhere.  He’s naked and you want to look at the whole of him, especially when he turns to face you…  
  
But his pale eyes hold you, as strongly as if he held your face in his hands.  
  
“Take a seat.” he invites, glancing at the settee.  
  
As you sit down, you keep your eyes fixed on his as he asked. He lowers himself at the same time and kneels before you. This would be highly promising position, if only he were corporal.  
  
He can guess what you’re thinking surely because he smirks.  
  
“I don’t think we’ll be needing these.” He waves his hands dramatically, and probably totally unnecessarily, and every stitch of your clothing disappears.  
  
“Hey!” you say indignantly  “That was…” You never found your underwear from the other night.  Had he just done the same thing to one of your favorite dresses?  
  
“Don’t fret, it’s just over there.” He nods in the direction of the bed and you almost break eye contact to glance and check, but stop yourself in time.  
   
“That’s right, keep your eyes on my face.”  
  
What is he up to? Why won't he let you look? Its making your imagination run wild. Could that be his goal? Well its certainly working.  
  
You notice that he’s following the same rule  He doesn’t let his eyes stray to your bare breasts or anywhere else.  
  
“Now.” He wets his lips and gazes at you intently. “Touch yourself.”  
  
“What!?” It’s not like you don’t know exactly what he means.  It’s that you couldn’t imagine doing what he’s asking.  
  
“Come along now, Darling. You know you want to.”  
  
Actually you very much don't. Despite the endearment – it's the second time he's used it and each time it sends a little rush of heat through you – its just too strange to think of doing that in front of him. He doesn't prompt you, just holds your stare. Naked and tantalized as you are it would be easy to do as he suggests, but you don't feel at ease revealing that part of you.  
  
You continue to watch his face and it quickly becomes very clear that he has no such reticences. You can tell what he's doing, just from the slight movements of his head and rhythm of his breathing. It feels dirty to be looked at like that, pinned by that gaze – even when it clouds momentarily. His face relaxes. This is what you so wanted the other night, to give him something too. But is that what's happening here? All you are doing is looking him in the eye.  It seems to be enough. You want to look down, see him stroking himself.  But instead you keep your vision trained on this face and watch the transformation.  
  
The smugness is long gone and he looks caught in a struggle between pleasure and control. It's addictive to watch.  
Momentarily he'll collect himself, tuck back a stray strand of hair that's fallen forward, but a few seconds later he no longer cares and lets it fall in his face. It's filthy, watching like this and knowing. But it's also too hot for words and his letting you see this is even hotter.  
  
“Don’t you want… to…?” He croons and falters.  
  
Anytime a man has touched himself in front of you it's always been a prelude or an inviation to something mutual. Sometimes it's a challenge, a provocation to do your worst.  But here you can't do anything. Here you just feel like a voyeur. It's obscene watching him and worse enjoying it, because you are.  
  
“You do it. I know you do.” Sweat shines on his upper lip. Despite his helpless arousal he's trying to provoke you.  
  
"What?"  He tosses his head to flick his hair back. You feel your body react, a tightening in your chest and heat gathering low in your belly.  
  
“When you’re alone.” he pants.  
  
"Do what?" you prompt him. Though you think you know.  
  
“Touch yourself.” His voice has gone rough and you can feel it all down your spine.  
  
“Have you been spying on me?”  
  
“So you admit it!"  He looks greatly pleased. "Touching yourself and…? and… thinking about me?”  
  
“That’s not what I said.”  
  
“I don’t mind." He visibly swallows. The idea obviously affects him. Just as it does you. "You. Doing. it. Idontmind. ”  
  
You can see him struggling to keep his eyes open as a shudder rolls though him and for the barest instant his projection flickers out of view, but just as fast it's back. He's biting his lip, his gaze still locked on yours. But then he pinches his brow and whimpers, the sound goes right to your most sensitive spot, but again you see the illusion almost disappear. He catches himself and his movements calm, his breathing evens out, though his eyes stay just as dark.  
  
Any doubts you had are easy to quell now, as desire floods your body and brain. He’s here and you don’t care about the rest.  He was never really angry at you, just suffering from his captivity.  
  
You want to make him lose it. Give him this yourself.  But if that happens he'll lose his hold on the magic and disappear. You don't want that.  You must walk the line between for as long as you both can stand it.  
  
“Don’t look down.” He reminds you. He grins and it's wicked salacious and beautiful all at once.  
  
“I know you want…to…know…what…you’re…miss-.” His words have lost their usual rhythm, but keep time with the slow pulses of his movements. Watching a man touch himself, you feel like you are intruding on something intimate and secret, something he’d only share with himself.  But there’s nothing secret about this, he’s in front of you and he’s doing this over you, as if you were some dirty picture. Perhaps that's what you are right now. The feeling isn’t so bad, you pull a pose with an arm up behind your head and feel a wave of satisfaction when you see his rhythm accelerate and his pupils dilate still further.  
  
The urge to touch him comes over you again, stronger than ever, but you can’t let yourself betray the illusion.  As long as you don’t try to touch him, he might as well be there in the flesh.  
  
Instead you touch yourself.  
  
And he knows it, just from looking in your eyes. There's a flash of triumph in his own. He won’t look down at what you're doing either, which puts you slightly more at ease.  
  
“Do it, pleasure yourself.” You push your hand between your legs, amazed at the wetness there already. And so you draw it forward over the soft hot folds there, breathing heavy as warmth spreads from your light tough and almost closing your eyes at the surge of arousal.  
  
You’ve never exposed yourself in this way. It's not sex, it's another form of intimacy. Somehow much more revealing.  You are showing him what you are feeling, but it's not a selfish activity. He’s so obviously a part of it.  
  
You slide down into the feeling, your body reacting quickly.  You lean back on the settee and start to work yourself unashamedly. Its good, so good. You feel yourself losing focus.  
  
“Look at me!”  
  
He’s stopped moving, he’s just staring you down, eyes wild and cheeks flushed.  
  
“Go on. I want to see you…” He is beautiful, halfway lost to his own pleasure, but desperate not to lose his hold. He’s unlike you’ve ever seen him, unlike anyone you’ve ever seen.  
  
So stare at him as you push on your sweet spot, where he should be touching you were he here for real and shiver involuntarily. You know it wouldn’t take much to tip you over the edge right away, you are swollen and wet from watching him and you wish you could let him feel it.  
  
“Move, move with me,” he invites.  
  
And so you do. You mimic his thrusts with the circling of you fingers that gives way all too soon to frantic rubbing as he accelerates.  You are both breathing hard but can’t share that air.  It’s an illusion but it’s good enough, very good in fact. It’s as though you were doing this to one another.    
  
There is no escaping, you are closer and closer to one another. Its only an illusion and the way it flickers makes that all too clear, but the effect is still close to perfect.  When he strokes himself it sends red hot tendrils snaking through you, like some new kind of magic.  
  
You both finally gave way together, you with a huff and a swallowed cry that bounces down inside you as the heat explodes in your body and brain, and him biting his lip again and finally, finally, closing his eyes as his orgasm rocks though him. The projection starts to fade as you watch his calming thrusts and heaving breaths, his mouth open, eyes still closed, lost deep inside himself or lacking the strength to open them again.  
  
You sag onto the settee and he flops onto the floor below you.  
  
For a few precious moments it's as though he’s actually there, laying limp, cheek mashed into the furry strands of the rug, a little voice reminds you though, as you come down, that he must be on the floor of his cell and you wonder if he just put on a show for any passing guards.

You want to hold him more than ever. And more than that, you want to be held by him.  But his illusion is gone before you can shatter it, before he can even say farewell.

You’ve made yourself want something impossible.


	4. All the late-night bargains have been struck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight there's a celebration and you just know he’ll be there, hidden in the crowd and visible only to you. You wonder what he'll have up his sleeve this time.

It’s got to be today.

It’s been four days, so you are sure he’ll reappear sometime very soon.

So often now you think you see him in a crowd or in the distance, but you’re just caught on a detail of someone else - the fall of their hair, the color of their cloak…  It’s never Loki, but it makes you realize how your mind keeps finding its way back to him. And who knows? Next time it might be him.

Tonight there's a celebration, a big affair, and you just know he’ll be there, hidden in the crowd and visible only to you. You wonder what he'll have up his sleeve this time.

As you're getting ready, you catch yourself thinking about how he'd like to see you. Its odd, because you never usually seek to please anyone but yourself with your choice of clothes. Tonight, you take a silver-grey satin dress, which also reflects green (his favorite color) when the light falls on it right. You wonder how he will approach you, how you will go on keeping the secret. There’s a thrill in that alone.

But you shouldn’t be thinking of it like a game; not when the stakes are so different for the two of you. But then, there's a good chance that that’s exactly how Loki himself sees it.

Finally, you add a pendant. That too is special. You doubt he would remember its story, but if he does it should be a good provocation.  Its a memento from the first time he tricked you, well before either of you even left the nursery.

 

 _One day you noticed Loki playing with something he carefully kept hidden from view. He made no effort to hide the fact that he was hiding something though. So you went and asked him if you could see what it was he had.  But no, he said it was very secret and resisted your pleas for the rest of the morning…which made you all the more determined to see. Eventually, tormented by his act_ _,_ _you tackled him and pried his hand open, only to find a handful of the most beautiful gems you'd ever seen._

_You jumped back in surprise, but he didn’t close his hand or hide the treasures away. They were purple and green and gold all at once as they shimmered in the clear light of the nursery. You could see he was very proud._

_"How? Where did you get them? They're beautiful.”_

_But Loki just smiled that annoying cheeky smile of his and wouldn’t tell. You badgered him for the rest of the day, but he just smirked and told you to hush. Finally though, just before it was time to go, he found you again and whispered in your ear._

_"They're from the bilgesnipes."_

_Now, bilgesnipes are wicked, ugly, scaly beasts. That they could make something so beautiful was a true revelation to you. They rose immeasurably in your estimation._

_“In their droppings.” He sounded so serious you didn’t question his words. “But…” he continued, holding you there by the arm and lowering his voice further. “Only the fresh ones.”  Having imparted this vital detail he sighed as though regretting his decision to share the secret. “Don’t. Tell. Anyone.” And with that he ran away, taking his shiny gems with him._

Loki has always known how to plant an idea. Sometimes he doesn’t even have to say what it is.

_This was how, several weeks later, when the chance arose, you wilfully ran off into the forest where you quickly got lost. A search party had to be called, who brought you back filthy and disheartened from a fruitless search._

_After a hot bath and a thorough scrubbing at the hands of nurse, you poured out the whole story about the stones…the bilgesnipes…and Loki, still convinced that your failure was because none of the droppings you found were fresh enough._

_Your mother called you gullible but was more overwhelmed with relief than anything else._

_Queen Frigga made Loki apologize and he behaved like this was the most terrible of punishments. She also made him give you one of the stones._

_Then you both got lectured on the dangers of bilgesnipes._

_For a long while after that, all he would say to you was a sullen, “Told you not to tell.”_

 

Years later you had your stone cut and set, simply and elegantly.  Loki probably wouldn’t recognise it now, even if he remembered the incident. Perhaps, when the right moment comes, you can remind him.   

When you put it on, the pendant takes on the same shimmer as your dress, it looks like it was made to go with the outfit.

And when, at the last moment, you add a deep green scarf to the ensemble, shivering at the touch of the sheer fabric on your skin, the stone mimics the shade for an instant as though it too feels a quiver of anticipation.

 

 

 

It’s a young crowd out tonight, hoards of people and noise and low lighting. Good. More work to spot him, but easier to slip away together. You scan the crowd.  That's something you do. Usually you’re looking a new face, for someone interesting who you don't know yet. Tonight you’re searching for someone you know only too well.  

Nobody could guess this. In fact, nobody pays you much heed. All eyes are on a newcomer. Jane Foster, Thor's Midgardian friend. You glance at them together.  What's shocking is how… normal she looks. You couldn’t tell she was from another planet where everyone dies so horribly young. She does look kind of fragile in a way and you notice how he never leaves her side. Are the rumors true that they’re in a relationship?  You hope not.  That would be just too tragic - so little time.

But at least they can touch, for a moment you don’t know whether to feel pity or envy.

You’ve started having stupid daydreams where you break Loki out of prison. It’s like another idea he planted without specifically saying. But the idea won’t leave you.  The longer you think about it, the easier the task appears. You are the daughter of two of Odin's most trusted courtiers. Your father takes care of the treasury and your mother works for the armory, designing weapons and defenses for Asgard. Your family is irreproachable.  They may not be warriors, but are loyal servants of Asgard. You would never be suspected of plotting against the crown… to break someone such as Loki from the dungeons. But, as easy as it was to creep down there, these are not the days of childhood when you could simply find a key.  And besides, where would you go once you'd got him?

You’re throwing yourself into tonight too hard. You’re not far off how you usually are in an exuberant mood, but you know your smiles and laughter are a front.  You cling to the arms of those you dance with and to all the outward signs of having a good time. But inside, you yearn for Loki and fear for him and for yourself and the more those doubts encroach, the harder you mimic yourself at play.  Perhaps you laugh a little too loud, you drink a little too much each time you slip to a vantage point to survey the room, and you dance and dance but never once suggest leaving the floor with one of your partners, You are not yourself tonight but at the same time you are ten times yourself, becoming your own mask as you twirl among so many others, searching for someone no one else can see and who isn't really there.  You’re forever glancing to the dark corners of the room, checking for a solitary watcher, taking another drink as you look surreptitiously into the shadows and scan the faces in the firelight once more.

It’s only when the crowd starts to thin that you start to wonder if, and not when, Loki will appear. The time for couples to meet and escape into the night is passed. You never usually stay this late and now you feel exposed. You’re confused, angry, and wondering where you went wrong. You sneak away and hurry home. Loki dashes your last hope by not being there either.

You stand in the quiet of your room,  the music still singing in your ears.

Why didn’t he come back?

 _This_ is why you don’t sleep with people more than once anymore.

But Loki isn’t ‘people’.

You should go to him - You can't go to him.  Not now. Not with the floor still swaying the way it is.  Not without a solution. Think of the reception he gave you the last time.

You struggle out of your clothes before you’re tempted to stumble down to the dungeons.

If Odin would only banish Loki the way he had Thor. It would simplify things.

You throw yourself on the bed and stare at the ceiling.

You’ve no idea how to live anywhere but Asgard. You’ve no idea what you are to each other outside this situation.  Perhaps he’s already done with you.

Perhaps that might be best.

You try to tell yourself you imagined the everything that happened with Loki.

It proves overambitious.

 

 

 

He has infected your dreams. They're full of unfulfilled sensations and glimpses of his naked form.  

When you wake, hot and heavy with need, there is no escape. You barely need to touch yourself to be back there with him in your last heated encounter.

Now this is an idea he planted by telling you precisely as he teased you, but perhaps you would have found your way here anyway.  You don’t hold back, imagining his touch on you, rough and urgent as it had surely been on himself that night and you can almost hear his words urging you on.

Merely thinking about it brings back that hum of warmth, that golden glow of the first time. And before any sensible thought can interrupt, there comes the thrum of your own body’s response - the sense memory of your reactions - no matter how he brought them out.

You picture his expressions as he pleasured himself, as he came. You would have caught him in your arms, would have held him through it, knowing that your own reactions under his gaze were enough to do this to him.  

The only thing you regret as you reenact those moments in the solitude of your room is the thought he might reappear at any moment and admonish you for not waiting.

 

 

 

But, then again, perhaps it’s not so bad that he could be watching. Indeed, you now know you have privacy nowhere. So why not behave as though he’s watching. You touch yourself for one who may or may not be waiting in the shadows.  You hook your feet over either side of the bath as you rub yourself deeply with both hands. Pushing back your head and stretching your neck to expose it to imagined eyes while letting out little half cries.  To start with, you do it for theatrical effect, because you are not beyond a bit of playacting if it forces him to reveal himself, but you hear your sounds too and all they imply and after that there’s no need to pretend, all your cries are for real.

 

 

 

You want to see what he saw on you. So, the next time, you try it standing in front of a mirror, limiting yourself to one hand, while you support yourself with the other on the cold marble top.

You watch the changes come over your expression. The mirror shows all, the flush of your skin, your darkened eyes. You think of his eyes, his naked shoulders, the parts of him you never saw and must still imagine. Your breasts grow heavier and your nipples hard as you explore the folds of sweet soft flesh between your legs, then finally allow yourself more pressure. You set to rubbing harder as the frustration mounts, but remain standing. You’ve little concern for how you look now, only for your goal. Wild strands of hair have freed themselves from their braids and stick out at all angles,  but you stay where you are, staring out your wanton refection. Your hand moves faster and you’re so wet it doesn’t matter how hard you go. It’s getting difficult to stay focused on anything but the sensation you’re chasing. Finally you close you eyes an instant because the feelings are too strong, but you can still hear yourself letting out low moans with every breath over the slick wet sound of your busy hand.  You force your eyes open and see yourself bent and barely hanging on to the dressing table, then the shudders take you and you feel your legs start to give way, You tighten you grip and the first wave of orgasm throws you forward, nearly knocking your head against the glass.  As you come, you slide back down, the force of it pushing you shaking to your knees, with barely the force catch yourself.

When you've collected yourself. You look around you in both hope and fear of seeing his projection. But you're still alone, and somehow both relieved and disappointed Loki didn’t witness your debauchery.


	5. Running through the rainbows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone's safe little world is about to get turned upside-down

 

You’re in the gardens when you finally see him again and know it for sure.

You’ve just had a lengthy fitting for a new dress and are relieved to step out into the sunlight. You feared that brown would be too drab for you but in the light the fabric is a gorgeous warm golden color with subtle bronze embroidery and you love the way it feels to your touch. You raise your eyes from a critical examination of the lacework and there he is. He’s alone, no more than ten yards away in the shade of a giant magnolia. He smiles warmly at you and all your doubts melt away. Automatically you take a step towards him. His clothes blend in with the background but his overly pale face is striking against the foliage. He gives you a wink and then turns and starts walking away, turning his back on the palace and heading deeper into the gardens. You give chase and he grins over his shoulder and starts running. Anyone looking on must wonder what’s gotten into you, suddenly taking off like that. He’s faster, of course. He isn’t slowed by a physical body, or long skirts, but he doesn’t want to lose you. On the other hand, he leads you far far away from the parts of the castle grounds you’ve frequented in recent years, across the hanging bridge, which swings with each of your steps over the deep gorge beneath, and through the gardens and landscaped woods with their ornamental waterfalls. You follow him until you reach a place you remember playing in as a child, where you had a land of make believe. Here are paths you’d already chased him down - or did he chase you? - when you were both small and this garden was the extent of your world.

What will happen if you catch him now? Not the long lingering kiss you yearn for. If you never do catch him then he might as well be real, not a puppet of a man living hidden from the sun.

You dodge in and out of the trees. One old fir with a girth so broad it could hide five men abreast lets you play a game you remember from long ago - circling the trunk while staying hidden from the other, changing direction to confuse your quarry or pursuer. You remember this game, it only ends when one of you gets caught out. But here Loki has the advantage - he is silent. What’s more he never tires.

You round the tree and there he is. Standing as though he’s blocking your path. You halt your steps before you fall into (through) him and he throws you a look that is purely predatory. You shriek with laughter and start running back up the path. You can’t hear him but when you glance behind for a second he’s is barely an arm’s length away. What will he do when he catches you. He can’t actually catch you, not really. But, oh how you wish he could. You are sure, going on your previous encounters that he has something in mind. Something you will like very much. And if it happens here, outside in the gardens…? There’s no one around, but there could be. That’s just enough danger to send another flush of excitement through you.

But then there’s a strange whistling sound in the air all around you. You can’t tell where it’s coming from and at first you think it’s magic … his magic … until it rises to a painful pitch and you stop turn to see a look of confusion cross Loki’s face. It’s not him doing this. There’s a resounding crash from behind the palace buildings and a screech followed by a boom that shakes the very earth. This is something bad.

There’s quickly another impact, another shockwave and a huge black starship speeds over you, flying low and barely missing the trees. You’ve never seen any ship like that in your life. Loki is completely still, all of the former softness gone from his face. A look of dread and understanding comes across his features. Asgard is under attack.

He starts running back the way toward the palace and you follow. What is he doing running? He doesn’t need to. Has he forgotten that he isn’t really here? That he can’t do anything?

You follow him up the grassy slope and under the arches of flowers. But, just as you are crossing the hanging bridge, another smaller faster ship appears out of nowhere, shaped like a blade and much faster. It cuts deep into the valley with a vicious whine and heads straight for you. You’ve no time to get off the bridge and back to safety. The ship catches the the ties of the bridge full on, cutting the heavy ropes and pulling the planks skywards in its wake.

The walkway is ripped from under you, the familiar bounce of the bridge replaced by a spinning nothing as you are tossed up in the air, flying for a second above the void. You flail arms and legs in desperation to catch hold of something, anything. But there’s nothing to catch but air. The skirt of your dress gets thrown into your face, then something hard hits you and you clutch with all your might to its unforgiving form. It’s a plank from the broken bridge. You fall, sure this is the end, only to lurch to a stop, the force almost snatching the plank from your hold. It’s still attached to a rope though, so you dangle, swinging and circling like a crazy pendulum. You risk a glance upwards and see that a lateral rope still holds across the valley. You are clinging to the debris hanging from it.

Where is Loki? Did he fall? That can’t be possible. Finally you have a reason to be glad he’s not here in the flesh. Whatever happens to you he is safe. But where has he gone? There is no one but you, your new best friend the plank, the rope above you and the deadly drop below.

You yell and scream with all your might for help. That the gardens are deserted is now a major problem. There’s another great boom in the distance sending a shudder though the rope. People have other preoccupations.

“Climb.” Loki’s voice is a balm of relief. You glance up at where it came from. He’s perched in an impossible position on the valley side above you.

There are several planks like the one you are clinging to between you and the rope spanning the divide. You try to do as he says, to get a purchase on the wood with your feet but you slide and almost lose your grip.

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can.” His voice shows not the barest doubt or hesitation and despite your predicament it makes you feel ten times better. He moves out along the lateral rope, legs crossed above it and pulling himself along arm over arm; so useful being weightless. “And you will do it because I can’t get you down.” Now its a command, given like he has no doubt about your strength. The rope turns and you with it, but you release one hand and reach up to grab a bolt sticking out of the wood that makes a convenient hand hold. You pull yourself upwards.

“That’s it! Again!” There’s a wildness in his voice and his eyes, but he’s also smiling. You’ve got to get to him. You look him in the eye and you hoist yourself up. Between the two of you there’s still two more planks and a tangle of rope. He leans over toward you and starts to move closer.

“Come on, come to me.” You know he can’t catch you - can’t save you - but he can give you encouragement and the warmth of his voice. There are no more footholds so you try to shimmy up, but all you do is to set the rope swinging so you have to cling harder.

“Get up here now, before you’re too tired to hang on.” His voice is still calm but the words only too true, your muscles are screaming, but you cannot rest. You move more gently this time, the wood gripped between you knees as best you can, but the layers of your skirts hamper your hold.

“I know there are better times and places I could do this…”, Loki says, the humor returning to his voice. He makes a tiny hand movement and you find yourself hanging there in just your underclothes, but suddenly much lighter and more agile. Finally, you reach the top of the first plank.

But when you try to put your weight on the next one it comes loose. You just have time to pull back before it falls to the rocks below. Above you there is now just a length of empty rope without any holds to help you climb.

Loki sighs and slides down till he’s poised on the bare rope just above you. Is he going to entice you to shimmy up the rope? It’s been years since you did anything like that.

“I could swing and jump.” You suggest.

“What?!”

“Into the bushes.” His eyes widen and you see a first flicker of fear, quenched instantly by the quirk of a smile. He looks at the valley side, at you, at the rope, then at you again and eases closer once more.

“Alright.”

The whole structure groans as you shift your weight. You try to tell yourself it’s just like swinging yourself as a child. Your thudding heart and whitened knuckles don’t find it at all the same. The rope complies and you swing back as far as you can go, then throw your weight forward, swooping toward your destination. You come almost close enough to jump, but slow too soon, stop and begin the return journey. You look up at Loki, who grins like he’s actually enjoying this, he who risks nothing here. Part of you wants to curse at him for that but you are much too glad that he stayed by you. As the rope turns again, you swing with all your might and the air rushes past. You try to forget the weakened structure above you and the threatening creaks its making, focusing only on how fast the valley side is coming at you. Then, as you reach the point of total stillness you simply let go and fall into the bushes, welcoming their prinkliness and the solid ground.

Loki is just a few feet away sitting on a rock and already laughing. He’s as pristine as if he’d never left the palace, while you are a mess, scraped by brambles and only half dressed. You want to to hug him, you can’t stop yourself. Of course you pass straight though and fall onto the rock he’s sitting on. The projection vanishes but he’s back in an instant, standing over you. He hasn’t stopping grinning and gives you a look that could have undressed you the rest of the way. ”I wish I could have felt tha-.”

He’s interrupted by a loud explosion that rocks the earth and sets your makeshift rope swing dancing over the abyss. You count yourself lucky to already be on safe ground and lying down.

But you’ve got to get back to the palace. Everyone you know and love is in Asgard and now the whole of the city, down to the ground itself, starts to shake. As you approach, the noise becomes a monstrous echo from one side to the other of the horizon, not just from the bombs and blasts but from the walls and buildings creaking, cracking, falling. You are moving into danger here. The enemy, whoever they are, are firing at random it seems. As though there was no target but to terrify and cause mayhem.

Loki leads you under an archway hewn from solid metal, a structure that has outlasted generations here. It must be strong enough to withstand this attack.

“You stay here. I will go and see what is going on. I can do that much more safely than you.”

“Can’t you stay with me? I mean can’t you have more than one projection?”

“Not with the little magic I have. If I had more I would have got you down from the bridge myself.”

“How come you can do any magic at all in prison?”

Loki sighs. He’s as close to you and he can get without touching and you see his face go taught for an instant.

“Odin has acquired, by fair means or foul, a number of magical ‘relics’,” his face twists slightly at the word, “and these he chooses to keep in the depths of the palace. Now, the weapons vault and the dungeons are very close together. A force like the Tesseract, which was once mine, one could hardly contain completely. From my _apartments_ I can channel the trickle of power that seeps from it. While my own magic is wholly contained by the cell they designed for me, none of those precautions stop the power of the Tesseract from coming in.” He looks vastly content at having put one over on the Allfather.

“Can I have my dress back then?”

He shakes his head in tired amusement. The dress rematerializes, but rather than appearing directly on your body, it floats in the air and then wraps itself carefully around you. It’s ripped in places, but you don’t care.

“I must go.” He lets his hands ghost the length of your arms as he pulls away. You feel nothing but you see it, just as you see a trace of longing in his eyes.

By the palace wall he becomes one with the shadow and disappears.

 

 


	6. This used to be my playground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world you knew only exists in your head now. You have to learn the new. These empty paths of dust and islands of rubble...
> 
>  
> 
> Warning: Blood and mild gore

It’s gone strangely quiet. How long has it been since the last explosion? How long have you been here? You hadn’t noticed until now, but you’re shivering. Who are this enemy? And why are they attacking. It’s easier to think on these questions than on how any enemy’s first target would likely be the armory or the treasury, where your parents are.  
  
Now the calm has returned, another sort of terror rises. You’ve got to know if your family are safe. You’ve got to move from here, whatever Loki said. He at least you are not worried for. The punished, people society is ashamed of and have hidden away, are finally best protected of the realm.  
  
There comes a crash of a falling wall, throwing a hail of plaster in your direction. You turn to look and through a cloud of dust see home, your apartment building. You shouldn’t be able to see it from here, there’s a whole section of the palace in-between, or there was.  
  
The shivers are getting worse. You can’t just wait here, wondering. You suddenly want your mother very very much. But how do you get to the armory from here, when the whole landscape between has been so terribly changed.  
  
All Asgard is heavily powdered in sandy dust. It’s in the air, you can taste it, as though you were breathing the very rock. When you look at yourself it’s the same thing, the dust has gathered in the contours of your dress making you just another part of this ruined city.  
  
At least, as you start to move, the shivering abates. You have your goal. Reach the armory. But you have to make so many detours around debris that you start to wonder where you are.  The world you knew only exists in your head now. You have to learn the new. These empty paths of dust and islands of rubble.  
  
And where is everyone?  
  
As if in response, a voice cuts through the silence. Someone crying for help.  
  
Nothing moves on the broken cityscape, you head for the direction the voice came from.    
  
“Where are you?” you call.  
  
You hear the voice again, not so much a call for help but a long cry of pain.  
  
“I’m coming,” you reply.  
  
You see a movement, then a figure appears, white as a statue with dust but clearly a soldier from the shape of his helm.  He too is searching. He stops and bends down to look at something.  You run toward him.  
  
On the ground there’s another man. He’s the one making the noise, and it’s clear why; his leg is trapped under a fallen column.  He’s letting out a tirade of pleas and curses while blood flows from wounds on his face and arms, cutting vivid lines in the dust on his skin.  His eyes are tight shut in pain.  
  
“Help me to get him out.” The soldier says, totally calm. “I’ll lever the column with my spear, then I want you to hold it while I free our friend.”  
  
Hold it down?  You look at the column, the spear, your hands …his face.    
  
“You’re strong enough.”  There’s no doubt in his tone, no hint he’s saying this through desperation or trying to persuade you. It’s just how it is. He said it. You are strong enough.  
  
He explains to the man on the ground what you are going to do, then pushes his spear as far under the masonry as it will go.  
  
Then he goes to the opposite end and pushes down. You see his muscles - ones you don’t have - flex with the movement. The injured man lets out a scream as the stone moves on his injured leg.  
  
You cannot fail here, cannot let yourself. The soldier nods and you push as he eases off.  He lets go slowly and the effort increases until you are holding it alone, all your weight on the metal. He looks you in the eye and you nod. Then he is gone in a flash. You look at the spear, only at the spear. You hear the man cry and the sound of him being pulled across the rough ground. You keep on pushing, until the soldier calls to you.  
  
“Alright, you can lower it.” You do it, slowly pulling the spear so it’s not trapped. Only when you’ve got it out and you’re standing there leaning heavily on it do you turn to the two men.  
  
“Give me something to stop the bleeding.” The soldier says. You have no idea what he’s talking about.  
  
“Anything. A strip of cloth.”  He nods at your dress.  
  
“Ok? I…” In a second he’s drawn his sword and cut a hole in the skirt.  He balls the fabric in his hand.  
  
“Push here.” He puts the fabric against the place on the man’s thigh where the bleeding is the strongest. “Stop the blood from coming. I have to get help.” And with that he dashes off.  
  
The man on the ground is glassy-eyed and breathing shallowly. You keep up a steady murmur of “It’s alright, you’re going to be fine. It’s alright…” but you’re not sure he can hear you. You keep on with he mantra, it’s holding you together.    
  
The cloth is becoming horribly red, frighteningly quickly.  There is a smell in the air that you think must be his blood and he starts to shiver. For the first time, you start to wonder if he will die. He’s not someone you recognize but he wears the robes of a civil servant, like your parents. You try very hard not to think of them.  
  
“What’s your name?” you ask, but he doesn’t answer. “It’s alright,” you say again. “You’re going to be fine. It’s alright…” you keep on.  
  
Then the soldier is back, carrying what looks like the remains of a door.  
  
“There’s no one free to come.” He looks at you gravely but expectantly. “It’s up to us to move him.”  
  
Then he sees the blood, which is no longer just on the cloth but all over your hands and the ground beside you.  
  
“We’re going to need more of that first” He points at your skirt. “Come here.” He cuts off more fabric, shakes off the dirt and ties it around the top of the man’s leg above the mangled mess of his injury. You wish you felt as calm as he appears.  
  
You get the man onto the door. He seems to be past complaining about the pain.  He’s very heavy and the board is hard to hold, but the soldier takes most of the weight at his end.  
  
You don’t think beyond getting to the healing rooms.  Once you are there everything will be fine you tell yourself.  
  
But when you get there, it’s a wholly different story.  
  
  
   
  
  
On the rare occasions you’ve been in the healing rooms before, it’s always been a peaceful place. Now there are injured everywhere, with healers dashing hither and thither.  Wounded lie on the beds and tables, but also on the floor along the corridors. You have never seen so many people here or heard so much noise. There are far more hurt people than healers and some lie unattended and or cared for by friends, relations or comrades in arms while the healers pass between them giving urgent instructions. Though the raid seems to be over, more people are arriving all the time.  
  
A white-robed woman takes charge of the wounded man, now unconscious. He’s clearly a priority due to the seriousness of his injuries. After he’s carried away and the soldier takes his leave, you stand there in the swarm of people, cries and crying and pain, stunned at how a normal day could so quickly turn into this. Most people hurry past you, until a hand grabs you arm.  
  
“You there.” a voice says, “You’re unhurt? Can you make yourself useful?”  
  
You are speechless. What could you possibly do to help here? But you nod. You want to make it better if there’s any way you can. You want all the craziness to go away.  
  
“We need someone to clean wounds.”  
  
They clean you up and replace your tattered garments with healing room robes. Someone pushes a bowl of water into your hands, sweet with the smell of herbs. It’s not much you have to do, clean off dirt and blood while the healers work. It’s nevertheless disgusting, you couldn’t have imagined the smell and the way that other peoples pain could affect you.  But you keep concentrating on the job at hand, on the immediate needs of those around you. You block out the thoughts of your parents and friends, of Loki and whether he came back for you, of what happened to the man you saved…if you saved him.  
  
There’s just so much blood and so many people. You forget the number of times you run to the fountain for more water. You forget the number of wounds cleaned and healed, or when the supply of herbs gave out. But you don’t forget the people’s expressions. The pain, the relief.  
  
The next case is an ugly abdominal wound and the clean up job is horrible, but you are becoming hardened. These are the lucky ones. Along the passage a man is ranting about masked attackers sucking people into whirlpool of inexistence, of a giant who withers people with just a touch.   He makes no sense.  Nothing does. But you have to keep on.  
  
The duties no longer make you nauseous but leave you with a sense of wonder. The wound before you is healing, reforming as you watch. The healers’ work is spellbinding.  
  
But then, around you, a calm comes over the room that you do not understand.   You see a person being carried down the room toward you, face covered. Dead then.  What can you do?  You keep about the actions you have been doing automatically.  But even the patient beside you is distracted and gives a hard intake of breath that has nothing to do with the wicked gash in his side.  
  
“The Queen!”  
  
You jerk you head up and nearly knock down the bowl of dirty pink water beside you.  
  
“The queen, what?” But a silence has fallen around you and your words burst out into it. You wish you could suck them back because the answer is brutally clear.    
   
Her shape beneath the blue shroud. There are no words for this. Odin is just a shadow beside her and the world seems to converge on him.  
  
  
  
  
  
Odin stays with Frigga’s body. The noise of the healing rooms calms to a respectful silence around him, but he does not remain quiet. Messengers flit to and fro as he gives orders in a monotone for funeral preparations and readying Asgard for another attack. You also catch a name, Jane Foster. Of what importance could she be?  
  
You keep your eyes lowered.  
  
   
  
It’s night now and they are telling you to go and rest.  All the healers there when you started have changed.  You have no idea how long you’ve been here. You have forgotten what you were doing and where you were going asides this.  
  
One of the messengers escorts you across the wasteland with a lantern.  You pass the stairwell to the dungeons, noting silently that it is unguarded. People have other preoccupations.  
   
In your rooms you don’t know what to do. You could fall onto you bed, filthy and bloody, you could strip off and bathe in your private bathroom and balcony beneath the moonlit mountains and forest. The luxury insults you next to what you've come from. You cannot be here.    
  
You know where you have to go, though you are afraid for what you will find and what you have to tell him.  
  
  
  
  
  
From a distance, you think that there is nothing in the cell but flashing lights - some malfunction of the prison system or sabotage by clever hands. There’s certainly no one else in the dungeons. There’s been a mass breakout. Only when you look hard into the swirling chaos do you see the figure in the middle of the turmoil.  
  
He stands in the center of a vortex of debris. Pages of books and broken bits of furniture spin around him as he turns on himself, arms raised. Things crash into the walls and forcefield, breaking on impact, as though he were creating his own ruined city.  
  
He already knows.  
  
Perhaps he even saw her die.  
  
With his clothes and hair is such disarray he looks almost animal, and not in a good way. He’s been forgotten here, you’re sure of it. You call his name but he doesn't hear you above the din and will not stop his turning, so far down in his own pain that nothing can reach him. You can hear him softly chanting through the noise of the storm around him and there's a faint smell of burning.     
  
You shout and wave your arms but he doesn’t see you. There’s nothing around you could use to break into the cell. In the mess you think you see flames and… ice. You throw yourself on the forcefield yelling for him to stop. The pain is like a thousand bee stings but is gone the instant you step back.  
  
He looks your way, eyes red and unseeing with anger and lets out a hateful scream at whatever dared interrupt his grief. Everything in the cell hurls itself against the forcefield where you stand.  
  
You don’t utter another word, but turn and run, his scream ringing in your ears,  glad the cell can contain him and hating yourself for it.  
  
You run up the stairs but your legs almost fail you, you’re shaking again and have to slow down.  There’s no pursuer. You are safe, but a great weakness comes over you and you find you are dragging yourself every step, dizzy to the point you think you might pass out. But you’ve got to keep going. You can’t be found here. You’ve got to get out of here before you fall down.  The air revives you somewhat as you finally step out into the night, but it’s just as dark outside as in the stairwell.  No one has lit the lamps tonight.  
  
Usually you could find the way home even in the dark, only right now it’s blocked by ruins. You wander, exhausted, without the strength to even cry. The blackness is not only in the sky but in your heart and in the clouds in your head as you stumble on. You feel as heavy as a rock. Then all the broken shadows start swinging around you, like the debris in in Loki’s cell, your head starts spinning, your vision blurs and you fall.  
   
You never feel the moment when you hit the ground.  
  
  



	7. In a castle dark or a fortress strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally they touch.

You can hear your name from far away, as though you were at the bottom of a well or lost in the forest, but you are too tired to respond or even to move. It’s not just the syllables that are familiar, but the voice itself. You know it better than your oldest memory, better than all those far off nursery rhymes.  
  
You wake to your father’s warm eyes as he softly repeats your name.  
  
“Papa!” You pull yourself to your elbows but your head swims and you have to close your eyes.  
  
He puts a reassuring hand on your arm and eases you back to the lying position. You keep your eyes closed, but you saw enough to know where you are – in the healing rooms again, only this time as a casualty. Then you sit bolt upright again.  
  
“Mother?!”  
  
“Don’t worry yourself.” his deep voice brings an instant calm. “She is fine and she knows you’re safe. She was here just half an hour ago.”  
  
It all rushes back. You’d been on your way to look for her when you’d found the injured man. All the images of ruins and injuries run through your mind. All the things you did since the attack and what you saw in the dungeons run through your mind. It seems like days ago.  
  
“She had urgent to work on the city’s defenses.”  
  
“They’re coming back aren’t they?” You realize you don’t even know who ‘they’ are or why they attacked.  
  
“We have to be ready.” You open your eyes. The serious set to the lines in his face makes a cold fear settle in your stomach.  
  
“Who are they? What do they want? Did you see them? Did they rob the treasury? Oh Papa.” You feel the tears, even though you don’t know what they’re for, exhaustion, frustration, relief, fear. Finally you let it out. To him you always could, your father who allowed your every indulgence and believes you can do no wrong.  
  
“Fortunately not.” He takes his handkerchief and, rather than give it, dries your tears and waits for you to calm down again. “Few people saw them and lived. ’They’ are the dark elves.  And they didn’t come seeking treasure or conquest. They only wanted the mortal Jane Foster. It seems the Prince’s young lady is a vessel for dark power.”  
  
“What?” At that you almost laugh. It seems ridiculous, such a frail being. But his face is still serious.  
  
“The Queen died fighting their leader, Malekith.”  
  
“Malekith. But he’s in history books. I thought he died centuries ago.”  
  
“He’s very much alive and looking for revenge on Asgard and on the universe. King Bor massacred his family. Frigga’s death may well have been revenge.”  
  
You remember again the last time you saw the queen. The blue shroud. The silence around her. Nothing is the same.  But then you look at your father you realize that some things still are. You have been so lucky.  
  
“Stay here and rest. They told me what you did for them and I’m proud of you.”  
  
After he has gone you don’t feel like resting.  The urgency of the whole situation infuses you. You’ve got to do something. You learn that the same messenger who guided you to your rooms found you lying in the dirt some hours later and you were brought back here.  
  
Then Asta and Dagny come. News of your exploits has spread. They look much themselves. Asta teases you about sleeping in till afternoon ‘as usual’ but you can tell they are impressed about you helping the healers.  
  
They ask you to come swimming with them. when you feel better, they are not going to let a potential invasion spoil their fun. You agree, but truthfully you don’t see yourself doing it. You don’t know whether to admire their optimism or think they are hiding from the truth.  
  
After they leave, you go to the head healer and offer your help again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It is quite simply the most beautiful night, which makes it difficult to believe that it’s such a sad occasion. In the darkness, the damage to the city is invisible and seeing thousands of people together gives a real feeling of hope. You never imagined so many people lived in Asgard. Each of them holds a little light, around you and stretching all the way across the bay. It makes you feel less afraid, helps you forget what is surely coming.  
  
“Malekith will return” your mother had told you. “And Odin will slaughter him.” This for her is a certainty. With her unwavering faith in the King’s power, such things looked simple, despite the risk of the Odinsleep, which is a secret to no one. “Then we must see what can be done for the girl.  The power she harbors could ensure the safety and supremacy the realm for eternity.”  
  
So Asgard has become a trap in which Jane Foster is the bait. The idea terrifies you, despite your mother’s confidence. Sometimes you still feel like you were on the end of a rope hanging above the void. Then you look around you. There are points of light for as far as you can see. It makes you feel proud and strong to be Asgardian, sure that the city will rebuild itself and that its people are capable of resisting anything.  
  
You had wondered if Loki would be here, escorted in chains and surrounded by guards, but you haven’t seen him. Perhaps they keep him hidden, even when they take him out under the sky. And if he’s here as an illusion he hasn’t shown his face to you. Since the day of the attack you haven’t been able to reach him again. You can’t get to him. The depths of the palace are far more carefully guarded these days, everywhere is.  
  
But he doesn’t come to you either, and it’s eating at you to know why. Your encounters seem so trivial compared with the gravity of what has happened, to the city and to his family. He saved you, with no more magic than for a ‘parlor trick’, but he couldn’t save her.    
  
His silence tells you he is suffering alone somewhere you can’t join him. He must be devastated.  
  
You’ve kept busy, filling your world by helping those you can.  
  
When Frigga’s ship takes flight, the crowd release their lights, which float upward, penetrating the darkness. You look up for a moment at the growing cloud of pale orbs as they float into the sky, and then you look around you at the faces. Faces of fear of sadness of hope, of pride, tears shining on the face if a lone soldier, while around him children who don’t understand squeal with joy at the pretty lights.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The next day everything changes again. You’ve decided you will join the girls after all and spend some time relaxing after working in the healing rooms. So you’re cutting across a debris-strewn hall and it’s there that you see him, dressed in his familiar leather, dressed for a fight.  
  
He’s with Thor and you watch as they move together between the columns. Perhaps they think they are being stealthy but their clothing is too showy to miss. They are slowly moving toward a group of soldiers guarding the entrance to the royal quarters. Surely they should just let Thor through?  Why is he behaving like a fugitive? Loki moves awkwardly beside him, and you see that his hands are bound together. Is he Thor’s prisoner then? He doesn’t seem reluctant to be with him. Determined, more like. Something else is different with Loki - from the sunlight penetrating the gaps in the broken walls you see he casts a shadow.  
  
Your plain robes from the healing room afford you some anonymity.  If Thor sees you, he pays you no heed. He’s more intent on his goal. But you catch Loki’s eye and you both stop.  
  
At that moment, two more soldiers arrive, spot Thor and challenge him. He pushes Loki behind a broken off column and starts to fight them.    
  
You don’t waste a second. You join Loki in his hiding place.    
  
When you touch his hand, a shock of pure energy runs up your arm and through your body, stealing your breath. It’s been so long that you’ve yearned for this, to have him here for real, with no barrier.  
  
You watch a dozen emotions chase one another across his features, uncontrolled and unmasked from you. Fear, relief, and a whisper of desire that’s quickly chased away.  
   
The harshness of his attire compared with the times before puts another layer of distance between you.  
  
There’s a clash of metal striking metal behind you.  
  
“This is not the best time.” he starts. But there’s the hint of a smile there too, despite everything. “We have to go and save the universe.” he says, earnestly.  
  
“What’s happening?” You ask. But he just looks at your hands where they are holding his bound ones. “Is Thor helping you escape?”  
  
“No,” And there’s that smile again. ”I’m helping him.”  
  
There’s a yell, a smash and a man gets thrown into your line of sight where he lays groaning. You wince.  
  
“Thor won’t let me fight lest I kill someone.” Loki says, not sounding disappointed in the slightest.  
  
You glance around the column. Thor pushing back a group of soldiers by their shields that they’ve locked together. What is Thor doing attacking his own? You shake your head.  
  
Since you last saw Loki - you won’t count your last trip to the dungeons, which he probably doesn’t know about - the world has changed: Asgard is no longer the safe haven you always believed and Frigga is dead. Asgard lost its queen, but Loki lost his mother. And you saw the impact that had. You had imagined him offering him comfort and him accepting, but that’s not who he is today, he’s somehow someone else. The fury is contained.  
  
He squeezes your hands, but makes no promise to return. The handcuffs tell you what that would mean for him. Considered a criminal in his own home,  would he even want to come back after this quest?  
  
What you had with him was little more than the frivolous liaisons you’ve had with most others. Perhaps even less. But it’s not what it feels like when his bound hands pull you close to him and he leans his forehead against yours.  
  
“I am going to avenge Mother. And to help Thor destroy the Aether.”  
  
And then he kisses you, soft and chaste, but it sends the blood thundering through your veins, finally you taste him. Just. But this little is already near overwhelming, you lean in further, but he pulls back and replaces his lips with one finger.  
  
“Shhh.” And while the frustration and impossible urgency to have him stay bubble inside you, he gives you a smile that feels like a goodbye.  
  
You grab Loki’s arm. “Just once, please. Kiss me for real.” If he’s leaving then you won’t let him go without something more. A look you don’t understand flashes across his face. You would almost say fear, that he wants to resist you.  But you catch the moment he wavers and make your move.  
  
You thread one of your hands through his hair, running the other down his back over ridges of thick leather and bring your lips to his.  
  
Once he gives in, he goes all out, his tongue hot and wet on yours, his trapped hands scrabbling to touch you through the thin layers of your robes. You had forgotten what it was like to be kissed like this, so urgently. He’s not doing it to impress or seduce, he’s acting purely on instinct, and you respond in kind, tasting him fully, showing how you much want him and want against all reason that he return to you. He responds, perhaps unknowingly, with tiny murmurs of affirmation. He can’t move his hands much in the cuffs, though he clearly wants to take you in his arms. Instead he spreads them to fit them as best he can over your waist. For as long as you can still hear the clashing of metal behind you, you know you are safe from detection. You feel a thread of guilt about Thor fighting alone against multiple adversaries, but he did start it and you know he can handle himself.  
   
So you let yourself forget everything but the moment. It’s raw want, messy and desperate. It’s all the things that you were missing all at once. The strands of Loki’s hair are silky smooth under your fingers and, from the way he pushes into your touch, you can tell he loves it. You want to cry from how good it feels.  
  
You wonder when was the last time he was touched. Before he was in prison? Before Midgard? Before the fall? Before he was king? Before Thor’s banishment? He crowds you against the column and kisses you harder, you forget to breathe. Why did he want to deny himself this?  
  
You break off to drag your lips over his exposed throat.  He lets out something between a sigh and a moan and catches your mouth again with his and you feed from one another as though starved.  
  
“Loki!”  
  
For a second you think you’ve been caught but, when you peek, Thor is several yards away standing surrounded in prostrate, groaning guards. You look back at Loki, His face is a mix of lust and regret, his eyes still full of some desolate want you don’t recognise. Then he rebuilds his expression and what emerges is harsh and terrifying - pity the enemies of Asgard.  
  
He turns away from you and with a proud stride goes to rejoin his brother. Instinctively you hide from Thor and lean on the pillar a moment getting your breath back.  
  
When you look around. Loki and Thor are gone. There’s no one but you and the men who tried to stop them.  
  
“A healer.” one calls out in relief.  
  
You’re not a healer, but that’s what he sees - from your robes. You quickly set to helping them anyway, wondering why this fight was even necessary.  
   
The feeling of Loki’s lips on yours and the sensation of his closeness linger. You are sure Thor saw nothing. It’s still your secret.  
  
You can only wonder now what they will do, where they will go and if they will ever return.  
  
You don’t make it out to the pools that day. Instead you escort Thor’s casualties to the healing room. More follow and bit by bit you hear how Thor and his friends broke out Jane Foster and made off in a stolen craft. They are gone.  
  
The close of the day brings with it a gathering emptiness and you finally understand something. It wasn’t the kiss that Loki feared. What he feared was its loss.


	8. The sea may look warm...the sky may look blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waiting is hard

So now you know what you’re missing.

In those few moments together you created something real, which is fantastic and terrible all at once. You can’t tell anyone though. Perhaps you’re even avoiding your friends because of that temptation. You want to tell the world. But Loki is both a criminal and a fugitive now. So you keep your silence.

Secrecy makes his absence all the more painful and hiding your feelings all the more difficult. But the rest of the world is preoccupied with the city’s crisis and your distress passes for that of so many citizens shaken by the attack and saddened by the loss of the queen or their own dear ones.

You continue to go to the healing rooms. It makes you feel you are doing some good and keeps your mind away from daydreams and darker places. If you take walks or rides alone you tend to drift off, feeling the shadow of invisible hands and lips on your skin; imagining silent promises Loki never made.

What shakes you out of it is Dagny’s broken arm. One day all of a sudden it’s your friend that you’re treating, making the sling while a healer sets the bones. She’d gone to run down a flight of stairs that wasn’t there anymore and taken a fall into a pile of rubble.

“And we were going to ride out to the lake and now I can’t make it.”

Before you know it, you’re dreaming up a solution.

“Of course you can go. We’ll just take it slowly and I’ll lead your horse. We don’t have to ride all the way around.”

And that’s how you find yourself at the lake with the girls. Almost like old times, but also not at all.

It is a beautiful late summer day and you really feel you are escaping, though from what you don’t know. Nara, your mare, is frustrated with the slow pace but you can’t gallop her today. Your little group moves sedately. The further you go from the city, the more intact it looks, but there’s no way you can pretend that nothing’s changed.

You stop and picnic by the water, Dagny basking in the light like a little queen with her court and though she cannot play any games, she looks on as though your sport is for her entertainment.

Asta is strangely silent though. She eats little and never starts conversations, which is unlike her. So much so that when the others are relaxing you go to her where she’s staring off across the water at nothing in particular. You don’t have to prompt her.

“Do you remember Peeter?”

You don’t. Not from just a name. But the way she says it, low and desolate, you know she doesn’t expect an answer.

It’s everything she doesn’t say that sets a fear running though you, starts your mind showing you a dozen faces that might be Peeter. But even without putting a face to him, death just took another step closer. You hug Asta in the hope of giving her some comfort. Perhaps you knew someone too, perhaps one or more of your ex-lovers is among the dead, but you haven’t given it a thought. No, you’ve only been thinking of one person. One of whom you still have no news.

As she silently cries, not for lost love you think, but for another’s lost future, you finally know, without a doubt that you cannot ever share the truth about Loki with her (or any of the others).

You haven’t lost him you tell yourself. But only, perhaps, because you never really had him.

You stare out across the water as she calms and you both sit in silence warmed by the fading sun.

In the middle of the great lake lies a boulder twice as tall as a man. It’s known as ‘Thor’s Rock’ and you can see it from any point around the shore. Like so many things around you, it holds memories of Loki. You let them wash through you again.

 

_The incident that created ‘Thor’s Rock’ happened back in that time when you had ceased to be children but were not yet adults, a period filled with new experiences and firsts, stretching in your mind into an endless parade of summer nights camping on the moors or by the lake and winter evenings closing in around festivities, of being together but somehow growing apart as you came to be yourselves. That winter was one of the times when you felt most separate from the princes. It was shortly after the cake accident, when the ensuing jokes had distanced you somewhat. While it was true that some of Loki’s pranks had been worse, you had caused him the maximum public embarrassment without even trying._

_Thor and Loki would fight, their brotherly rivalry having grown up with them into something bigger and bolder. You stood back from their foolishness and simply hoped that no one got hurt. But you couldn’t stop yourself from watching._

_It was an exceptionally warm winter, Thor had not long had Mjolnir and was very proud. This, in his eyes made him a man and his bragging made him tiresome company. Loki for his part was also proud. So ferociously proud that he would not admit his jealousy of his brother, which was nonetheless clear to all. He was haughty, distant and rather disdainful. He had recently grown taller than Thor and had chosen a very elegant new winter wardrobe, the kind of thing Thor couldn’t care less for. Loki now had the a tall frame that showed most garments to great effect and his parents indulged him. Some of this may, you guessed, have been because there was no Mjolnir for Loki. It was no secret he wanted the hammer, but not for its aesthetic appeal or even its usefulness. He wanted it because Thor had it. It was a childish desire and he put great effort into hiding it._

_The mildness of the weather meant that the ice formed only thinly on the great lake but, like every year, many wanted to venture out to skate or merely to savor the sensation of walking on the huge flat expanse where one could only swim or sail the rest of the year._

_Odin had formally prohibited the use of the lake, as the ice was dangerously thin, but that didn’t stop people. You would think that knowing that they risked an icy bath at best, if not their lives, would hold them back, but no. Nor could Odin keep the lake sufficiently guarded to prevent people from straying onto the ice. You expected a fatal accident any day._

_Then Thor said he had a solution, he would break the thin ice and make it impossible to venture out. He planned of course to use Mjolnir. Loki immediately said that_ he _would break the ice, meaning that he would use his magic and thus prove that he was the stronger._

_An argument blew up between them one night and they even came to blows; Frigga and Odin, concerned that this was not the way for future kings to behave, intervened. But Odin decided that their spirit of competition was to be commended. He would also be most content if they would destroy the ice. But not with Mjolnir, whose control Thor was still learning, nor by magic, as Loki’s spells were still known to sometimes go awry._

_They both said “Yes, Father.” earnestly and went to bed liking their wounds, even more determined to best the other._

_They started at dawn. You watched with your friends, wrapped thickly against the icy wind. Many people had gathered around the lake and cheered like they were watching some sport. Thor, predictably, chose to use brute force. He rolled a massive boulder from the mountains and threw it into the middle of the lake. It made a great hole of course and plenty of cracks, but broke just a fraction of the surface ice._

_Loki on the other hand had a palace engineer direct freeflowing water from the hottest geyser direct onto the ice. But Frigga discovered his plan and put an immediate stop to it for fear of cooking alive all the fish in the lake._

_As you watched, Thor, standing on a raft of broken ice, tried to roll his boulder some more. But this time he had no gravity to help and what was more he had Loki trying to stop him. Another brawl commenced, this time atop Thor’s boulder in the middle of the lake. Inevitably, they fell in the water, along with Mjolnir, which Thor had brought along despite its uselessness in the endeavor. Both boys were soaked to the skin and shivering in the cold wind. Though Thor tried vainly to call Mjolnir, they had to drag themselves out of the water without it._

_This was no longer the heroic spectacle most people had come out for. You were secretly glad there was no victor, but felt terrible for them: so cold they looked hardly capable of moving. Odin took a royal flying boat out personally and hauled Loki into it. Loki’s skin looked like it was almost turning blue by this point. Odin wasted no time in pulling open his own coat and holding the frozen boy to him, engulfing him in furs before speeding away. Thor he left there. Later you learned that Odin told him he should be able to control Mjolnir better than that. He could come home when he had reclaimed his hammer._

_And Thor had just accepted that. Even defying his mother when she went out in the half-light of dusk to try to get him home._

 

 

 

And, over time, the pattern repeated. You see it now. For crimes committed off world Odin banished Thor, stripping him of his powers and all that made him Asgardian and leaving him to fend for himself on a foreign planet. But Loki, for his misdemeanours, was put in Asgard’s dungeons. Kept close - punished, but protected.

You are so glad for the life you’ve had, that Odin is not your father and that you are not a crown prince. Your parents would never do anything of the kind, and you have no siblings to fight with. The palace has always been your home and, until recently, there have always been Thor and Loki.

But now Odin has sent his army against his own sons, imprisoned his gatekeeper and the warrior Volstagg and signed warrants for the arrest of Sif and Fandral when and if they are ever found.

The six most powerful of the realm are either gone, in hiding, or locked away. The world has been turned on its head.

In Asgard, Odin walks the halls and grounds all day, barking orders at the repair teams and asking hourly for news of Thor. You privately think that, with Loki as guide, they will not be found until they want to be.

Speculation runs high about the fate of the missing trio. You’ve heard the latest from the girls. Some of the gossips say that Thor only wanted to elope with the mortal and defy his father once more. But there are also rumors that Loki is in league with Malekith; or that he has killed both the dark elf and Thor, declared himself king of Svartelfheim and taken the Midgardian as his concubine….

Any of the ludicrous possibilities would be better than the news you dread. The fear that Asta’s words put in your heart. You won’t contemplate it.

 

 

 

Days pass and you cling to your routine – helping the injured, watching the city recover.

The courtiers, your parents included, are subjected to the moods and exactions of Odin on a daily basis, as the needs of Asgard all involve money, arms or both.

If the loss of Frigga and new conflict with Thor have taxed the Allfather it doesn’t show. He throws himself with fervor into rebuilding Asgard, and efforts to catch Thor and destroy Malekith.

But everyone is scared of what might happen if he falls once more into the Odinsleep, or if news of Asgard’s battered defenses reaches other enemies…


	9. How can you close and fail?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you have news of the king?” he says close in your ear, as though it were a secret.

The bad news arrives before Thor does. At first, it’s just a rumor you won’t listen to - given the shape they’ve taken up till now - but then, you hear it from someone you trust.  
  
One afternoon, in front of the palace, you come upon a vast battalion of Vanir soldiers.  They are off duty and scattered across the newly-cleared terraces, sunning themselves and relaxing, armor removed and sometimes shirts too. Still more of them fill the plaza before the palace and, yes, you admire them. But you’re not giving them the appreciative eye that you once would have, though they surely deserve it. The days you would have seem like something from another life.  
  
Before you can ask anyone why they’re here, Hogun appears. Since you last saw him he has gained a beard and with it an air of seniority. He recognizes you at a glance and beckons you over.  
  
“Do you have news of the King?” he says close in your ear, as though it were a secret.  
  
Something’s wrong.  Why would he ask that? Surely all these troops aren’t here uninvited. You don’t know what to say and it must show on your face.  
  
“Just as Asgard helped Vanaheim defeat its foes, we are here to offer our strength in the defense of Asgard. Odin sent word. He was to welcome us but he’s indisposed.” He frowns and looks away “The shock of the news.”  
  
“What news?” You knew nothing of Odin’s sickness. He did not come to the healers. Hogan hesitates and lowers his voice further.  
  
“About Loki.” You take a sharp intake of breath and he glances at you with concern. He may even think that it’s fear of Loki not fear for him and puts a reassuring hand on your arm.  
  
“He was found dead on Svartelfheim.” No words come to you. There is neither sympathy nor condemnation in Hogun’s tone, just the fact. This is no rumor. “But no trace of Thor.” He shakes his head, then looks about him. Thankfully not at you because you’re struggling not to react. “I come here and find my friends gone, who knows where. Heimdall could tell me, but he too is gone.”  
  
“He’s in prison.” The words come automatically to you as though spoken by someone else. You refuse to process the news you’ve just heard.  
  
“Prison?” Now it’s Hogan’s turn to look astonished. It’s clear he knows little of what has happened on Asgard since the attack. You’re feeling physically ill now, but fighting to hide it. It spreads though you like a poison. Loki hadn’t promised to return, perhaps he’d known. Perhaps he’d…  You can’t process it.  
  
“I will see him if I cannot see the King. He will find Thor.” Hogun says.  
  
“There are too many guards.” You speak without thinking, not caring if you reveal that you know the path to the dungeons and its surveillance only too well.  
  
“Take us there.” You think you hear a smile in his voice that he’d never show on his face. “There are never too many guards for Hogun the Grim.”  
  
Faced with an entire Vanir garrison, the guards give way instantly. The cells are full again, with the strange collection of marauders and enemies you saw before.  The Jotuns eye you without comment. But there are also some new residents, indistinct figures scurrying to the corners of unlit cells as you pass. You can hardly see them, but you know these are dark elves.  


  
  
Volstagg is not hard to find.  With his loud voice he is ‘regaling’ anyone within earshot with a story.  
  
“… And we watched the final glimmers of helfire fade from the eyes of the dreaded beast we had slain. Then, our swords still hot with its blood, we routed the enemy, sending them running for their lives into the forest in their hundreds.”  
  
“Forty-five” Heimdall corrects him.  
  
“Oh but what use is omniscience and when it spoils a great tale for you.” Volstagg retorts.  
  
He’s sitting on the floor of the cell while Heimdall stands close by, his eyes closed, leaning against a wall. Like that, he looks tired and remarkably ordinary. Their cell is smaller than Loki’s and unfurnished. They both seem too big for their meagre surroundings, yet belittled by their situation.  
  
“And we feasted on the spoils for a full week.” Volstagg continues.  
  
“Week-end” sighs Heimdall.  
  
“A detail.” He looks sidelong at Heimdall then continues. “There were whole sides of succulent meats, cheeses…”  
  
You see Heimdall’s fist tighten slightly, food is perhaps a taboo subject here in the dungeons.  
  
“Kegs of Ale…” and then his eyes fall on your party and the tension diffuses in a heartbeat.  
  
“Hogun, My friend, what joy to see you.” Volstagg booms, rising to his feet. “Have you come to liberate us?”    
  
“I am glad to see you yourself, my friend. But what is the reason for this new abode?”  
“We are paying for our fidelity to Thor, who chose to defy his father. And Heimdall here has decided not tell Odin where Thor can be found.” With that Volstagg gives a little chuckle, as though, despite their circumstances, he enjoys having one up on Odin.  
“I cannot begin to understand how Odin would turn once more against Thor and put you here,” says Hogun. “But tell me, if you will not find Thor for his father, then will you find him for a friend?”

 

 

  
  
You don’t want to be alone, not now, so you allow yourself to be swept along as they return Heimdall to the observatory. He stares out into the universe, watching something none of the rest of you can see with a reverent wonder. On most days, Heimdall is frighteningly otherworldly, today - renewed by the sights before him - he is terrifying. Even if he were watching the end of the world you think he might well find beauty.

But on Thor he gives a wholly confused report.  Thor is in Midgard. No, he’s in Jotunheim. Svartelfheim, no, Midgard! The mortal Jane is in Midgard, that he is sure of and it shocks you to hear she survived the quest when Loki did not. Heimdall cannot see their foe Malekith, but the Aether he can see, and that too is tumbling between the realms.

You don’t hope for news about Loki. You’ve had news enough and you are just trying to hold it together while Heimdall gazes into the sky. Hogun’s questions about Thor, the elves and the Aether fade into the background as icy fingers of despair start to clutch at you and you begin to feel as though you were yourself lost in the void between worlds.  
There is a sound of the soldiers behind moving and parting and when you turn, Odin is there, flanked by his personal royal guard and perfectly composed.  Resplendent even, in a fine white suit and gold coat, not looking in the least indisposed or traumatized by tragic news.  Cold-blooded, rather. And dangerous. You wish that you could disappear. You are the only woman present and you must surely stand out.  Odin pays you no heed though.

“Heimdall, you may return to your post.”

Although it’s a fait accompli no one smiles at the irony. The two share a wordless exchange, Odin’s one eye fixing Heimdall’s amber ones.

“All charges are dropped.” Odin adds and taps his staff on the Bifrost for emphasis. It’s both reassuring and somewhat scary that Odin should make this compromise. But his tone is not without an edge of menace. He doesn’t need to say that there will be conditions to Heimdall’s freedom.

“I thank you Sire.” is all Heimdall says falling to one knee and crossing his arm across his chest in respect, his expression unreadable.  
  
  
  
  
  
Through the days that follow you are cushioned by a kind of disbelief, a numbness.  At first, it’s as though you had heard the opposite news about Loki. But that’s only because there is nothing tangible, and the only message was from a soldier who has since been reposted.  
  
But once Thor returns, there is no longer any doubt, his words leave you with no hope.  You’ve seen enough terrible injuries yourself to picture what happened to Loki.  
  
There is also regret in Thor, he feels responsible. You understand this,though he cannot know why. The last time you saw them together, he had his brother in handcuffs. Asgard saddens Thor still further and you can tell he longs to leave.  
  
You wish for him that he hadn’t had to tell the story, even though he describes his brother’s actions as those of a hero. You wish you could reassure him.  
  
It’s hard to find him alone and when you do it’s in a draughty golden corridor where he’d obviously sought solitude.  
  
Thor openly crying is a shocking sight in itself, his sobs are like rolls of thunder wracking his huge frame.  You don’t know what to do. You share something with him. In the face of death, it shouldn’t matter anymore who you tell about you and Loki. You want to tell him how Loki saved you in the air raid, that he was good to you in his way. You want to break Thor out of his despair before you fall into it too.  
  
“About Loki.” You start. “I want you to know… that… we were… ” He doesn’t seem to hear you above his own pain. You reach out to touch his hand.  
  
“Leave him.” comes a firm voice.  
  
It’s Odin. You stop where you are, arm still stretched out. Thor hasn’t noticed.  
  
“Leave him. You can’t do anything.”  
  
It’s harsh, but then so is the man who said it.  
   
Your words die in your throat and you back away. Very few times in your life has the Allfather addressed you directly. It wouldn’t even be clear that he’s doing it now, as he’s not looking at you, except there’s no one else here but you, he and Thor.  
  
You leave them together, with Odin sitting watching Thor.  You hope they find some kind of comfort in one another but you feel the chance to share what you have to say receding with every step you take.  
  
So what is your own grief to be? A silent and secret pining for what could have been? It’s not like you and Loki had anything resembling a real relationship. But surely it was infinitely more than Asta and her unmemorable lover. You feel like you’ve always known Loki and now a great big what-if just evaporated.  
  
  
  
  
  
Some nights you dream. Without your rational mind to slow them, your sleeping imaginings wander where they will. And they are cruel, they throw you back to times when you could have been with Loki. You are forever running in the garden, camping on the moors, just the two of you, or dancing, faultless, on an endless dancefloor. Dream-Loki still has the quirk of mischief in his eyes, always that underlying heat, your shared secret. He’s very much today’s Loki, with his rough, bitter edges, but all the more passionate. Before you wake, your dream selves always find yourselves in bed but there is never time to do so much as kiss before part of your mind shakes you for the wrongness and you find yourself forced awake, desolate and empty with the realization you are alone and he is never coming home, in chains or otherwise.  Sometimes you wish that you could stay asleep forever.


	10. Dragons live forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Odin' won't let go of the Aether so easily.

 

“Wow. What’s the invitation?”

Dagny runs a finger along the top of the envelope propped up on your desk. It’s large and cream colored, silky to the touch with gold corners and your name in a bold looped hand. You like looking at the envelope more than thinking about its unexpected contents.

“The King’s Autumn tour.” You reply. She raises her eyebrows and Asta give a impressed “Hmm” from your bed where she’s sitting waiting for her nails to dry. You shrug your shoulders. “It’s usually my parents who go. I guess I got it this time because they’re so busy.”

Representing them makes you feel older somehow, but that was coming anyway and not just from all you’ve been through. With the years those questions are growing ever closer, the ones about career and marriage that you are further from answering than ever. ~~~~

“Sif cut her hair.” Asta puts in, half bouncing with the news. Her sadness of the other day has faded and you envy her that so much. If she could only pull you up with her. You’ve got to move past your own pain. Forget about Loki, well not forget, but live better with what happened - and what didn’t.

“As in cut all her hair off completely.” she continues. You grin and try to give her your full attention. As gossip goes it’s tame and comfortingly harmless. Odin had pardoned all those who’d helped Thor, and so Sif and Fandral had returned to the city.

“Disguised herself as a young lad… And Fandral, too.” she goes on, looking at you pointedly as she mentions his name.

“Cut his hair?”

“No.” She says with a wicked smile. “He’s shaved.”

“Now that I’ve got to see.” You say with a laugh, hoping it doesn’t sound too forced. You remember Fandral before he had any facial hair at all.

 

 

 

It’s not long before you get the chance to see them. Odin gives a speech to the people a couple of days later and a great crowd gathers. Everything is made to look as normal as can be, though nothing can hide the absence of Frigga and Loki.

Thor is there, composed and serene. It’s also his official farewell before he returns to Midgard.

Sif has indeed cut her hair. It's short up the back and sides, trimmed to show her scalp through the stubble that remains. The striking whiteness of her skin against her dark hair draws the eye. It’s beautiful. Though you know it was only done to remain incognito, you can’t stop staring at it. It hardly looks to you as though it would avoid attention. Fandral looks much the same as ever though, minus the winning smiles aimed at the ladies perhaps, but with mustache and goatee intact. You suspect, if what the girls say is true – that he’s used cosmetic magic to replace them before appearing in public. But more than any physical detail of either Sif or Fandral, you know within a second of seeing them, with the conviction that only an ex can have, that they are ‘together’. A consequence of near death experiences perhaps, extreme times, or being on the run together. It’s a shock. Sif has never shown any interest in a man other than Thor. She and Fandral seem so unlikely together, but then you think of yourself and Loki. You look away.

Odin has dressed carefully for the occasion you note. He has replaced his eyepatch with one that is black and very shiny, resembling somewhat a huge eye in itself. It’s a bit disquieting. And to his habitual tones of gold and ivory he has added a touch of copper in the decoration on his cape. A hint at the coming autumn perhaps. You think again of the tour and realize you will be pleased to escape into the countryside for a day.

Since Loki’s death, Odin has visibly changed, as though the combined weight of tragedy transformed him. At first he had slept so much that his councilors feared he had gone into the Odinsleep. Then he returned, but would spend days just sitting on the throne staring into space griping Gungnir and barking orders at anyone that came into the room, even if it was for a detail like opening a window or searching for a book.

That Odin should read was surprising, your father said, usually he had advisors for that because it tired his eye. Perhaps he was planning something highly secret or had a strategy for the Aether, the terrible weapon Thor and his friends had wrested from the dark elves.

“Now comes the dawning of a new age for Asgard and the nine realms.” proclaims Odin standing tall and proud in front of the throne, and before he can elaborate there is a thundering round of applause. Dagny, next to you, raises an eyebrow at the predictability of the crowd.

At Frigga’s funeral, Odin hadn’t said anything at all and now it is now widely thought that his grief may have colored his subsequent decisions. Now he goes into a lengthy speech on the bravery of the Asgardian people, the renewal of the city and its defenses and on honoring the dead, though he mentions neither Frigga nor Loki by name.

“My son…” He pauses. “Thor Odinson…” And Thor looks at the crowd and smiles at them. It cracks your heart a little as it’s been so long since you saw Thor smile, “will relate how Asgard prevailed over the dark forces.”

Thor, evidently carefully coached, probably by his father, now tells the story of the defeat of Malekith, predictably leaving out all details of his departure from Asgard with Jane and Loki. He praises his mother’s bravery and Loki’s cunning and honors their memory and those of all others that fell. He also praises the Midgardians who helped them and says how he will now pay that debt by serving Midgard for a time. Beyond her part in the capture of the Aether he doesn’t directly mention Jane nor does he hint at his abdication. On the whole it feels a little scripted but the people love it.

Then Odin reminds everyone that though enemy was vanquished, it is not time to let down their guard. They should prepare, every one of them right down to the youngest child ‘big enough to wield a sword’, to be a ready for another attack, so that nothing could ever harm Asgard in this way again. As he speaks the word ’Asgard’ he touches a hand to his chest. Then he spreads his arms as though to encompass the whole company.

“Each and every last one of you should be ready to take arms.” And though he seems to be addressing the multitude, the way the light reflects on his eyepatch makes it feel as though he were talking to you in particular. While it’s true that all Asgardians learn combat skills, few use them. The fighting spirit of the Allfather has not changed, but he assures the people that the Aether, the cause of all the destruction, will now serve as a means to protect them. You know he’s talking of your mother’s work, turning the power of the Aether into the means to defend Asgard permanently.

His speech wanders on about what is lost and what is learnt and if he is referring to his own errors he is not specific. This could be the closest Odin has ever gotten to admitting a mistake.

 

  

The night before Thor’s departure there is a get together, the nearest a party you’ve seen in Asgard since the attack. It’s a quiet affair though, just talking and drinking. All the old stories come out, of Thor and the warriors, but also of Loki. The Loki stories come out again, as they did a year ago when he was believed dead. The tales, the anecdotes. You are glad people don’t speak so badly of him now he’s gone, but recall times they remember Loki doing this or that, or times they’d been a victim of one of his pranks - finding their boots suddenly two sizes too small, or not finding them at all, unless roosting in a nearby tree. Or when they’d had an argument with a frustratingly smiling Loki and becoming increasingly irate at his mutism until noticing the real Loki was looking on from a distance while they were chastising an illusion. Also, his ways of evading getting punished for his deeds, transporting or transforming himself. Thor recalled that one time he’d disguised himself as a potted palm. Some of it even makes you smile. The irony of the situation is that you are the one girl associated with Loki because of the cake incident, even though it was ages ago, and you are thus considered as his kind of honorary would-have-been girlfriend. Like you are who he would have been with if he’d ‘turned out more normal’. You want to speak of him but are still afraid of it. It’s not the truth they want but the legend. In retrospect they have painted him better and brighter than he was. And of course everyone wants to hear the cake story, the thing you and Loki are famous for together: that one time, Volstagg reminds everyone that even Hogun laughed, but you feel oddly detached from the memory. The feeling of him holding you to dance has been replaced by you holding him you as a lover in those few moments before he left forever. You don’t talk about the cake or even the infamous snake incident that might have been his revenge. No, instead, when finally goaded into telling a story about Loki, you tell them something you’ve never told anyone before. You tell them about the dragon.

_You’d caught sight of Loki from a distance, practicing spells in a corner of the garden. He acted as though he hadn’t seen you but you knew that his senses were keener than that. So was he trying to show off? You decided to watch him and moved a little closer. He was drawing the illusion of an immense dragon out of the dust. It swirled around him as it flew, wingless, like a giant snake. Quite a work of art._

_If he knew you were there then you knew he could well send it to chase you, which was just the kind of thing he might try if he resented your audience. But he didn’t, so perhaps he hadn’t seen you, or perhaps he wanted you there. You crept closer._

_The monster grew larger and its features clearer as Loki worked; shiny curved claws, long teeth and red protruding eyes. It snaked like a fish about its master, dancing for him like a tame thing, a faithful hound, a friend. It was hard to believe that it could have sprung from Loki’s imagination alone.  
_

You make an aside from your story to comment on how you don’t ever remember Loki having any pets at all, while Thor was dotty about goats from a young age. This raises a laugh all round.

 _When you got close enough to see his face, there too it was as though he were communicating with a real animal through his expressions. He was totally absorbed. The dragon grew more monstrous by the minute - an extra row of teeth, wings, horns… He even made it belch smoke. It was strange and evilly alluring, as though Loki was trying to make it as grotesque as possible._ _This kind of thing was not a common pastime of Asgardian boys._

_Loki was so caught up in what he was doing, joyful even, so different from everyday. It was him you were looking at now as much as his grandiose creation. He was both proud and totally invested. You watched him smile at it, as though in encouragement as the great beast dipped and circled around him. He appeared swept into his own fantasy that the dragon was real. Perhaps that’s why the illusion was so strong, you saw rainbow reflections in its scales and jade glints in its bulbous eyes. You had never seen Loki look at anything or anyone with such intensity._

_But your own distraction by the whole scene was your downfall. You took a step too close and your shadow fell across the ground in front of the young sorcerer. Loki started and his regard, open and confused, fell on you. You expected anger, for the dragon to rise and fly at you so you braced yourself, trying to remember it was an illusion, that it couldn’t tear your head off with its mighty jaws. But instead the chimera faded and everything just fell to the ground leaving Loki there, a pale, rather thin young man in dusty clothing, staring at you._

_To this day, you can’t decide if he had known of your presence not. The dust billowed dramatically around him nonetheless and you wonder if he had a hand in that._

_You didn’t know what to say._ Y _ou couldn’t say it had been beautiful, because it wasn’t. It was ferocious and ghastly. But it was beautiful that he could do such things._

_“That was incredible.” you said._

_“I must go and change.” he replied and walked off. He didn’t seem cross with you for distracting him so much as with himself for getting distracted._

_You didn’t see him practicing again. But you know he must have. To be that good he must have practiced all the time. No wonder he wandered off alone so often._

 

 

By the end of your tale, everyone listening is watching you strangely. You seem to have enraptured them while having forgotten them as you spoke. Was it something in the way you told it? You had got so into the moment you were describing that you forgot the present and now it hits you with all its cruel reality. Just like Loki and his broken illusion.

“That’s about it.” you say weakly and hear your voice quiver, losing all the confidence of your storytelling. Stepping out of the dream into this reality that slaps you in the face. You know you are about to lose it so you run out into the corridor before you break down in front of them all. This was not supposed to be a sad occasion.

 

 

The air is chill outside in the cloisters and you take a deep breath, knowing that the tears will come when you exhale. But then you sense you are not alone there and you hold it in. You see the outline of a figure in the gloom and suddenly the figure of Odin is lit by the moonlight as he steps before a pair of tall windows.

He holds a blue stole in one hand, his staff in the other. His head is hung low and his face is in shadow. You don’t know what you are seeing, except you probably weren’t meant to see it.

The color of the stole is familiar. It was Frigga’s. You wish you could disappear into the wall behind you. Instead you back away as quietly as you can, thankful for the softness of your slippers.

But there’s little risk that he will hear you. The Allfather leans on his staff and, as you are about to back out of sight behind a column, you hear him take a loud, shuddering intake of breath.

You have never seen him emotional, though it can’t be that he does not feel such things. How long did he know Frigga? Your own pain has no significance next to this. You stay in the shadows, silent, not wanting to watch and not daring to move.

Finally, you remember that the westward passageway, which is behind you and in darkness, offers an exit onto the lawn. It’s in the opposite direction to where you want to go but any way away is good right now. You don’t want Odin to see you or, more precisely, for him to catch you seeing him like this.

You do not remember reaching your room, but once there, standing before the door, you let your own tears fall. First for the impossible sadness of what you just saw, then for your own secret loss, and then for the fact that you can’t properly mourn something that no one knows was there.

One of the serving ladies passes you but you barely notice. When she asks if she can help you wave her off. “The Queen… Odin, it’s just so sad”.

Then you run inside and cry again for never having the chance to know if the thing you had with Loki could be more than some prankish lovegame.

There’s a movement behind you and swing around, but it’s only Asta standing in the door you left wide open.

She doesn’t ask anything, thankfully, because you’re not sure you can talk right now. She just invites herself in.

“Loki huh?” she says and sits down on the bed you’ve curled up on. “I didn’t know you’d been sweethearts.” You don’t correct her. You think she’s talking about way back when, something come and gone in adolescence.

You will tell her when you can stop sobbing. But that takes a long time and finally you are too tired. You wan’t so much to be like her. To get up and carry on.

“I’ll be okay.” you manage, and believe it. What happened is nothing, nothing compared with Odin and Frigga and then you cry about them again.

You think Asta will ask awkward questions or go away, but she doesn’t. She just stays, sitting by you and you feel her presence again the few times you stir from your fitful slumber. Only when the morning wakes you fully are you sure that she has gone.


	11. Every game you play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vicious rumors and games of war

  
  
  
  
The horses’ breath leaves white smoky clouds in the air. Everything about the morning is damp, but crisp, as you set out. Mist hangs in the valley the party are riding through, soon to be chased by the morning sun.  You were right; this is a welcome escape from the paths of your own mind, those same trails to nowhere around the palace and the drab emptiness of missing someone in a way that can’t be mended by their return.    
  
You needed to get away and now here you are. From up on the hilltop, when you reach it, you can see far across Asgard, forests, fields and lakes.  
  
“This is what is ours and we must protect.” Odin says gravely. “Have you ever seen such beauty on any other world?”  
  
Its not a question that requires an answer, and anyway you haven’t been to any other worlds so how would you know? You wonder again about the royal invitation you received.  You’ve tried to look worthy of your role, Nara has her finest tack and you your mother’s riding cloak. Everyone dismounts to admire the panorama and allow the horses to rest.  
  
Sif and Fandral are there and, though you keep your distance from them, you can’t help but glance now and then. He chatters away as usual and she hushes him and then he carries right on. You can’t help but wonder when will she come to her senses. Not that Fandral’s bad, but he’d rather have the admiration of many than the devotion of a single partner. That was a lesson hard in the learning. It’s what made you a little the same way. Sif on the other hand… When has she shown an interest in any man besides Thor? There was even that one time you hid from her when she drunkenly mistook you for him. She had to have been seriously hammered that night. But, as for the rest, if you were with her and a fellow caught her her eye it was surely the way he was armed that interested her. If Sif mentioned the length of a man’s sword then she was truly interested in the length of his sword. It could be quite boring.    
   
In your efforts to avoid the couple you find you are standing not far from Odin, on the side of his missing eye. You look at his face, worn by time, and try to find the similarities with Loki. You have the strangest feeling that he is looking at you while apparently gazing into the distance. You shake the feeling off and look at the view. A movement has stirred a flock of birds to flight and they rise into the sky.  
  
The morning is a precious time of rebirth.  Perhaps that is why Odin brought the party out so early.  Not to hunt, but to admire; to see something worth fighting for.  
  
“The danger is still alive. We must remain vigilant.” He continues. You wonder what he means. If Thor’s words are true then the dark elves are gone.    
  
Still feeling watched, you glance at Odin again to see if he is indeed looking at you, and in doing so  you witness something everyone else misses; something you’d never believe unless you’d seen it for yourself.  The king’s horse, Sleipnir, a courageous but gentle beast - who you are nevertheless wary of because of all his extra limbs - has crept forward behind his master. Sleipnir takes the hood of Odin’s cloak in his teeth and throws it up over the king’s head. Everyone but you is too busy looking at the scenery to see it happen.  
  
You hide your smile and look away but you hear no harsh words from the king toward his steed, only a quiet horse noise that sounds a lot like a snigger.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
On your return, you feel weary from the day and all its impressions, but somehow fortified. Surprisingly, Odin goes off to the stables to tend to his horse himself rather than leaving the task to the stable lads.  
  
No one seems to find this strange.  Odin is, after all, the king - he does as he wishes. And he has done some strange things lately. But you can’t help yourself but ask about it when Fandral approaches you.  After all, there are other things - like Sif - that you are very carefully not asking Fandral about these days. So the question comes naturally, like an obvious bit of small talk.     
  
“Why did Odin go to the stables?”  
  
“Because of Loki.” Fandral throws you a winning smile, as if you had not become immune long ago.  
  
“What? Why?” There’s no connection there as far as you can see and you can’t help but be perplexed.  
  
“It’s the last link he has…”  
  
You must look confused as you feel.  
  
Fandral raises an eyebrow in question.  “You didn’t know about Sleipnir…” His eyes flick away from you a moment. He’s not really trying to hide something. He’s waiting for you to take the bait. How predictable.  
  
“What about Sleipnir?”  
  
He lowers his voice as he guides you by the elbow out to where the walkway is open with a view over the rushing waters glistening in the evening light.  
  
“He’s Loki’s son.”  
  
“What!” And you turn on him, thinking his serious expression will break into a grin any instant.  
  
“Fandral you’re just so full of sh…” You start tapping on his arms and laughing, thinking he will start too.  But no.  
  
He shakes his head.  
  
“Thor told us the other night, after you’d left. You remember when Loki went away to study that time.”  
  
“At the sorcerer’s institute?”  
  
“A lie. Does that sound likely to you?  A school of sorcery on Midgard?  No. He was here all the time, in the pastures, or in the stables, waiting for the happy arrival.” You stare at Fandral, unable to decide if it’s a farce or the truth. “A magical accident. Or a very much non magical one actually, he transformed himself, fell pregnant and was stuck as a horse for nearly a year.” he grins.  
  
It is so far-fetched you don’t know why he’d even try to convince you.  
  
“Men do not give birth and certainly not to horses.”  
  
“If one man in the kingdom was capable of giving birth to an eight-legged horse it would be he, you must admit. And he was a horse at the time too, so…” Fandral goes to smooth his mustache and stops himself just in time as he remembers it’s fake.  
  
“What kind of fool do you take me for?” You sigh and start to walk away.  
  
“Believe me. He even attempted to convince me to try it.”  
  
“Why?!”  
  
“Told me the sex was incredible.” Now this really is getting out of hand. Even though that’s an argument that might sway Fandral. You’re glad you left early the other night if this is the level it reached later on.  
  
“And you didn’t go for it?” You try to dead pan, bring this back to the tone of the joke it most probably is, all the while though you can feel your doubt starting to niggle at you and a growing sense of horror. You think of the mischief in Sleipnir, and the number of times Loki’s magic got out of hand despite his best intentions.  
  
“I was afraid of getting stuck.  As an animal I mean, not caught like Loki I mean.  For a start I wouldn’t have let myself get turned into a female.”  
  
You sigh and turn on him, anger rising.  
  
“I didn’t mean it like that.”  
  
“I know what you mean and I still don’t believe a word. It’s worse than the destroyer story.”  
  
“Which is also true.” he puts in, raising a finger.  
  
“That you and Volstagg killed the Destroyer...”  
  
“More or less…”  
  
“When I’ve also heard that Sif killed the destroyer and that Thor too killed it, which is good going - dying three times over - for a magical machine that was never alive to start with.”  
  
“But you must admit that it is no longer.”  
  
“Yes, and I know all about how expensive they are to replace.  But I refuse to believe that it was ‘heroically slain’.”  
  
At that point you realize you have company. Sif has changed and is wearing a sumptuous red velvet dress, one you think you remember her getting made with Thor in mind. Fandral openly admires her. You ignore him.  
  
“Loki did that too,” she adds. “Set the Destroyer on his own brother.”  
  
She’s solemn.  Not condemning.  But you just don’t understand. All the events around Thor’s banishment happened shortly after you broke up with Fandral, a time when you hardly saw the warriors. You shake your head in disbelief.  
   
“How do you think he ended up in prison. That and terrorizing Midgard” she says  
  
“But he’s not… he was kind.”  
  
At that Fandral doesn’t laugh but looks shocked.  
  
“He was kind to me.” It’s enough, that and your story about the dragon. He knows. You don’t need to say any more because he knows you, just as you know about him and Sif. He rumples his brow and you can tell he wants to know the how and the why but he won’t ask in front of her. He won’t show her how well he still understands you.  
  
 It’s horribly awkward. Now is the time you must leave. If only you can find the words for a quick exit.  
  
At that moment you are saved by none other than the Allfather. He has also changed from his riding clothes into more regal evening attire, complete with a golden cape. He looks carefully are each of you, though not in such a way that you can fathom his thoughts. How much did he hear? Finally his eyes come to rest on you, and he says.  
  
“I care to spend the evening discussing something other than politics and matters of state. Young lady, what do you know of Midgardian war.” He is perhaps waiting to see if you know. And you do, but you find you can’t say a word, the question being so unexpected.  
  
“The game I mean, not the foolishness of the realm’s inhabitants.”  
  
It’s a shock to be singled out.  You cannot refuse the Allfather and you are lucky that you know the game. Though why he should have thought you might is a mystery.  
  
It’s been years since you played.  You learned it from your parents who believed it would instill forward planning and patience.  
  
“Yes, Sire.” You reply. Sif and Fandral look at you in surprise but say nothing and gracefully and politely leave.  
  
  


  
  
Later, you join Odin in the royal sitting room and a couple of servants wheel in a trolley with an enormous board on it and set it up at the table, you move to face Odin.  
  
The servants thankfully remain with you, as the man’s presence is intense. You have never been alone with him and only the thought of concentrating on the game saves you from quaking in your shoes.  
  
As the game progresses you become sure that he played this game with Frigga. That he picked you to put in her role should make you uncomfortable. But you like playing and the identity of your opponent and his motivations fade into the background.  
  
“Do you know what the Midgardians call this game?”  
  
“Chess, your highness”  
  
“Yes, but beyond that?”  
  
“No, I don’t, Sire.”  
  
“The game of kings.”  
  
You don’t know why he tells you this and you don’t know what to say but he makes his move and it takes away the need to answer.  
  
Having never played Odin, you do not know if he sees far ahead in a game, as your father would, or whether he tries to provoke reactions, foolish moves.  
  
You played this game as a child, not only with your parents but also with Loki. He could stay sitting still long enough, unlike his brother and their friends, though you could tell he was sometimes bored. He would conjure up extra pieces by magic when your attention was distracted.  It was only when you noticed he had three knights and both your bishops had shrunk to pawns that you called him on it.  
  
But Odin is unreadable, his moves suggest neither a scheme nor opportunism.  He seems to want to know what you will do, each move a question awaiting a response.  
  
For you, Odin has become more like an opposing army than a man across the table, the one who watches the board intently who but seems to be watching you with his missing eye, its creepy and you are sure you are imagining it.  
  
He’s not talkative, not like your father, postulating about strategy as he goes.  Here you’re left guessing. Odin must be an experienced player, given his years. So, is he making it easy for you?  It’s not something you can rightly ask.    
  
You start to play provocatively, until you both get aggressive and the board quickly clears.    
  
But then it ends unsatisfyingly in a never-ending chase of the kings and their pursuers, never enough to trap them, always the space for the other to get away.  
  
After you’ve thanked him and bid him goodnight you keep wondering about the ambiguous end game.  
  
Had Odin planned it? And if so, why?  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	12. Too short to fill with sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected reunion

  
Palace diners are not nearly as lavish nor parties as carefree these days, but you can tell that, like the healing city, it’s getting better.  A few days after the outing, as you dress for the evening, you choose a deep dusty-peach dress, just sober enough to pass, but with plenty of frills. There’s a risk you will offend, although your hope is to cheer things up, yourself included.  
  
You admit it now. You had imagined Loki returning victorious, his father pardoning him and a normal life unfolding for the two of you. But you wonder if that fantasy is truly about him. Like the stories of his deeds that paint him brighter than you remember. You wonder who it is you love. Because events have made it feel like love now, something greater than perhaps it was.  
  
You still think you see him sometimes. Just when you are starting to recover, you catch yourself searching or your imagination betrays you and creates him again - a shadow or a silhouette of a person who you can’t quite see or a figure who doesn’t look your way. Perhaps it’s because you are forcing your mind to stay away from the truth - his remains left to disperse on a hostile planet you’d barely heard of.  
  
The soldier who found Loki’s body was reported missing in action not long after. Though you’d never have sought him out, it’s another lost link to the reality of the situation.  
  
But you know, like everyone else in this city, you’ve got to get up and carry on.  
  
It seems that no one is offended by your color choice tonight, least of all the king. This much you can tell by his glances. You also notice Fandral watching you, not in a predatory way, but with concern, which is strange and disconcerting. What’s more embarrassing is when he comes over and asks if you’re alright, really unsubtley, in front of your friends and of course they make a big thing of it and a fuss out of him. His old fan club got lost somewhere and there's only Sif now. She’s sitting there regal and poised, looking on at the scene, her cropped hair showing off her striking bone structure to great advantage. You will not dwell on thoughts of them together. You have other cares. The imaginary Lokis are out in force tonight too. There are more tall Asgardians with long dark hair than you ever thought. This matters far more than before.  


 

 

  
Returning home alone - it’s always alone these days, you would not take a lover simply to chase away a ghost - you have an underlying feeling of being followed. You’ve been so focused on yourself, it hadn’t occurred to you that someone might be watching you.  
  
You stop and look around. There's no one. It’s dark and a little cold. You take a few steps more, hearing nothing but the echo of your own footsteps.  
  
Then, seemingly from right beside you, a hand flies out and clamps tightly over your mouth. An arm grabs you around the waist, and you’re dragged forcibly into a nearby alleyway. You can see nothing, but your attacker draws you close, your back hits a metal breastplate and you smell steel, sweat and leather. Even without being able to turn, you know that your assailant is a soldier. You try desperately to think of his possible weak points. There are virtually none in Asgardian armor, plus he’s very strong.  But at such close range maybe you can poke him in the eye if you can only turn around… and if you could reach the knife you keep tucked into your garter… You struggle, trying to twist or to bite his hand, but his hold is so firm that you cannot shift.  
  
He brings his mouth close to your ear and you shudder and renew your efforts to squirm out of his grasp.  But he doesn’t lick you there or whisper obscenities, he simply says, “It’s me.”  
  
His voice is impossibly familiar. And a whole new kind of fear grabs you.  One that turns your world inside out. Loki!  
  
You stop struggling instantly, heart pounding, not with fear but with confusion and hope. He keeps holding on just as tight and nothing happens for a moment. Nothing but his breathing, warm in your hair. You want to laugh out loud but you can’t. It would be a crazy laugh anyway, one you perhaps couldn’t stop.  
  
“I’m going to let go now,” he says. “Just don’t scream or anything.”  
  
He relaxes his arms and you twist in his hold.  
  
You get a shock when you see that, behind the protections of the horned helmet, his face is one of a stranger. But as you look it changes. His skin pales, his hair darkens and his beard disappears. Within the armor, his features take the familiar shape you have been endlessly searching for.  
  
“How?”

  
 He continues to just look at you, like he too thought he would never look upon you again. He’s watching you look at him too. But then his eyes go hard for an instant.  
   
“No one should ever know. Ever.” he says, shaking you slightly with the last word before releasing you completely. ”I know that's hard. But you must never tell anyone. I shouldn’t be here. But I couldn’t not be.” He lets a gloved had trail loosely down the contour of your body until it rests gently at your waist. “I couldn’t…”  
  
Your terror evaporates and the anger that he so deserves for the scare he gave you simply won’t come. All you are is incredulous and relieved.  
  
Now it's your turn to throw yourself on him. But Asgardian armor is thick and heavy and, as you quickly discover, protects a man as well from physical affection as it does from armed enemies. You hold him as tight as he did when he grabbed you, trying to hug the cold metal encasing him, but it’s too big to reach your arms around. And it’s impossible to kiss a man properly when he’s wearing one of those helmets. You silently berate your mother, as you know this design was one of hers. The best you can do is hang on by a cheek plate and one of the antlers as you finally bring your lips to his.  
  
It’s open-mouthed and urgent, and like being brought alive again. Or being reminded how to feel, or that you even could. It’s the sudden lifting of a weight you’d been carrying and you feel you could fly. It’s also around a hundred times more desperate and demanding than those moments when he was leaving, and you find yourself giddy and shaky and holding on for dear life.  
   
“Close your eyes.” he says, pulling you off gently, grinning.  
  
“No.” Now he’s here for sure you don’t want to stop looking… or touching… or tasting.  
  
“I need you to do this to help me.” He holds you away from  him, swallowing hard. “Close your eyes. Think of somewhere safe we can go. Think of your chamber. Concentrate.”  
  
You concede. He’s going to do magic with you. That sends another thrill through your body. Both his arms come around you and draw you close and for a second you are really flying before landing heavily in your own bed.  
  
“Good choice.” He says with laughter in his voice.  
  
You’re not so sure.  He’s very heavy with the armor on, since he’s done nothing about that part of the disguise yet. The bed groans under the added weight, but he ignores the problem in favor of kissing you some more.  
  
You make short work of the helm, but don’t get much further for a while as this makes it possible to kiss deeply and properly, What’s more it releases his hair and exposes large areas of his face and neck you haven’t touched yet.  
  
He revels in your touch and kisses you back anywhere he can reach. It’s almost too much, the sensations you only dreamt of coming real all at once. He seems just as affected, seizing you and plunging his tongue, urgent and heated into your mouth. This is not the patient play of the other times, it's urgent and demanding and brings a wealth of sensations with it. You wonder if at any moment soon he’ll disappear your clothes, but no, there’s plenty of touching, of rubbing, licking and mouthing, but you are both still fully garbed. This is going too quickly to stop for anything as trivial as undressing and Loki is too preoccupied to do anything as ethereal as magic.  
  
He runs a gloved hand up your leg, uncovering you, pushing up your skirts into your face.  Then he pulls the glove off, first loosening the leather over each finger with his teeth as you watch.  Then it’s his hand exploring, invading.  All the time he’s rutting against you, through the mail and umpteen layers of protection. It hurts where the metal presses against you.  
  
If the armor isn’t coming off, you’re going to have to find a way inside it.  You squeeze a hand between your bodies. The iron and mail graze your skin. But he guesses what you’re doing and lifts himself a fraction, watching you.  
  
All you can see is his face surrounded by the fluffy peach fabric of your dress. At this instant, you hate the armor, hate its harshness and not being able to feel him, but his expression is captivating… how affected he seems by the simple semblance of contact through the layers, and how hard he struggles to stay focused, until the moment when he loses the battle and is overcome by the need for release. He speeds up his movements just as you finally get your hand past the final layer of protection and touch him, huge, hard and hot. It doesn’t take any more that that a simple touch to tip him over the edge. He bucks into your grasp again and again spending over your hand and crying out unashamedly.  
  
He half collapses on you, heavier than ever, taking shuddering gasps into your shoulder as you struggle to breathe under the weight.  
  
You are left hot, wet and wanting, his release coating your fingers.  
  
You grab his wrist with the other hand.  
  
“Don’t go anywhere.” you tell him, trying to chase away memories of him dematerializing.  
   
He laughs and you feel it, even through he layers of clothes and armor. “Allow me to assure you,” he says hazily “I have no intention.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“But if I did, that wouldn’t stop me.”  
  
You grab the other wrist too with your wet sticky hand and he chuckles, buries his face in your neck and sighs.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He’s left you hanging, burning for him. Laying half on top of you, he’s effectively pinning you, while every point of contact, whether skin or hard metal, sends tendrils of heat running down through you. He’s aware enough to have noticed and it amuses him, making things all the worse. But you’re too happy to be annoyed. Too elated to have him here alive.  
  
You set about getting the armor off him.  He lifts an arm, barely, so you can untie the vambrace.  
  
“What are you doing?” He murmurs, though he knows full well.  
  
“Getting you naked.” You slip your fingers into the joint between the chestplate and shoulder guard and unbuckle the fastening. “Roll over, will you?” He moans but obliges, the bed creaking as he throws his weight to one side and rolls you both over together, landing you on top of him. You loosen the buckle on the other side and release the second guard as he watches you through half-closed eyes.  
  
“You know what you’re doing there, don’t you?” He whispers. You’re working your way around the chestplate, loosening all its ties. “A girl who likes a bit of rough.”  
  
And so? you’ve had lovers who are common soldiers, but what business is that of his? Then you see the look he’s giving you is one of fascination, not jealousy.  
  
“And now you’re getting a taste for finer things?” You playfully box him on the chestplate before pulling it off entirely. You don’t tell him, but what you know about removing armor you learnt in the healing rooms. You don’t want to think about that right now.  
  
You work your way all over him removing the metal pieces and then start on the clothes underneath.  He lazily complains in a voice more affectionate than irritated and does nothing to stop you, but little to help you either.  You rejoice in each new expanse of skin uncovered. It is a lengthy task as you ensure you kiss every inch of him. Despite the intimacy of your magical encounters you have never yet seen him wholly naked.  He only stops you at his undershirt, long and a shade paler than his skin.  
  
Then, seemingly having recovered himself enough to do magic, he lifts a hand and finally conjures your clothes off.  
  
“Don’t you like my dress?” you tease.  
  
“I love your dress.” he says, eyeing what he’s found underneath like he’s already seen something he likes better. “Save it for our honeymoon.”  
  
You don’t know how to take that, nor what to say. It’s a shock. It’s got to be a joke.  At a loss for a reply you kiss him instead, deeply, on the mouth, filing his words away in the back of your mind under daydreams, fantasies to cheer you on sad days and stupid things people say after sex.  
  
This time you kiss slowly, savoring it, exploring and discovering.  The fire never died down in you and now you feel it rising as he starts to respond. You put your hands in his hair and drink in the realness of him.  
  
“How are you here?… How?” you repeat between kisses.  
  
“I’m on a secret mission…” he whispers, almost against your lips. And he might, from the way he says it, mean that you’re his secret mission.    
  
“But how?” The how of it is fast becoming much less important that the simple fact of how very _much_ alive he really is, pressed against you.  
  
“I’ll tell you… soon.”  And with that he pushes you on your back and latches his mouth to one of your breasts and that’s the end of any explanations. You find you can’t say much either, at least nothing articulate. He’s concentrated and meticulous, not moving to the other side before the nipple is swollen and hard, shaped to a point by his mouth.  
  
 He sets about discovering you with his hands and mouth, closes his eyes and becomes absorbed in learning you by touch. When you hold him or simply caress him he sighs in contentment. It feels almost too much, to go from nothing to all this in one night.  
  
He surveys you hungrily, then devotes himself to softly sucking where his armor pinched or cut you.  There blossoms both pain and pleasure and you writhe under him. Then he moves to virgin territory.  He talks nonsense against your stomach, the movements of his lips making you shiver. Then he starts moving lower and you know his goal, just as you know how wet he will find you.  That very thought makes you still wetter.  
  
The first contact of his tongue between your legs is warm but makes you shiver all over. You want to buck and arch into the feeling, but he holds you in place, all the better to work on you.  
  
He’s unhurried, unlike before, you on the other hand are stricken with urgency. You look down and catch the sight of his dark head between your thighs as he delves and sucks. Your blood hums and your heart thumps deep and loud in your ears. You open your mouth in a silent cry. Then he raises his head just enough to look at you, his eyes piercing and proud of the state he’s got you in. Then he pulls away, grinning, you see his lips wet and swollen. He’s stopped but the sensations ebb as you drift back from the brink.  
He rubs his erection in the path his mouth has left, sliding easily, while that same mouth smirks at you.  You know what’s coming.  
  
He pushes inside you gently and you watch his eyes, the relief as he enters you, then an icy hardness as you urge him and he thrusts harder.  
  
The feeling, more than being touched in that deep secret place, is one of being joined, melded, made into one.  You wrap your legs around him, the better to draw him into you, trying to absorb his taste, his smell. Who he is, the weight of his past and the uncertainty of tomorrow cease to matter. Everything but the moment fades behind the sensations he’s drawing from you.  


Now he moves, harder and stronger, so hard that he would move you with him if you weren’t hanging onto the sheets. You have to push back to stay where you are; it heightens the force of his movements inside you. He arches up and away from you, giving you a fine view of his neck and collar bones, flushed like his face, where the shirt is open at the neck.  
  
He falters and his voice drops to a growl, he praises you and pleads. Those sounds, those words, and knowledge he’s about to climax push you over yourself and your voice blends with his as you crash in to the wall of heat and pleasure together. His arms close around you and you ride out the waves of the flood that washes over both of you.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It must be some unreal hour of the morning by now but you cannot sleep, not even with your body exhausted in the wake of your lovemaking. You’re naked, cooling down, stroking his hair as you lay side by side and wondering if he will tell you how he survived.  
  
“That was really remarkably stupid what you did in the alleyway,” you say affectionately, “I could have hurt you.”  
  
He laughs, as if there wasn’t a chance you could have harmed him.  
  
“It was worth the risk.”  
  
You’re so used to him impeccably dressed and groomed.  Right now, down to wearing just a plain shirt, with his hair mussed, _by you_ , he doesn’t seem lessened, just all the more beautiful.  You feel you’re seeing something few others have: Loki with his guard down. It starts a swell of warmth growing inside you.  
  
“Hey.” he says, quietly observing. Though there’s nothing that he hasn’t seen before, he looks at you as though he was seeing you naked for the first time and you feel exposed, while he remains covered.    
  
You run a hand up his back and feel scar tissue there, twisted hard knots, shiny smooth, and you know this must be the wound that nearly killed him.  He could hide it under magic but he doesn’t. Perhaps he wanted you to discover it.  
  
“Take it off,” you say tugging playfully at the shirt. “Come on, you’ve seen everything of me.”  
  
“If you saw the damage perhaps you would not find me nearly so desirable.” he sighs. You can’t believe anything would change that, but his expression makes you pause.  If he doesn’t want to…  
  
You both hesitate. Then you nod and he pulls the garment over his head twisting himself and stretching as he does so.  
  
In the center of his chest the skin is reddened and puckered around a rough shape of a wound matching the one you felt on his back. It is not the ugliness that makes you wince but the imagined injury, thinking of the moment this happened to him.  You cannot believe it possible to live through such a thing. You cannot imagine such pain.  
  
“But it must have… It pierced your heart.”  
  
“My heart does not lie where most would believe.” There’s a new undertone in his voice and he gives you a sidelong glance.“But it did pierce a lung, break several bones and cut into the vessels leading there.” His words are matter of fact, chasing away any romantic notions and bringing you back to the healing rooms and the pain you witnessed.  
  
“How then did you not bleed to death?” Only magic you suspect could stop that..  
  
“I made my body cold enough that the blood could not escape.” It’s impossible, ridiculous.  
  
“You froze… your blood? But that would kill you just as well as a sword.” It's incredible, but why should he lie about this.  
  
“Not me.” And the smile is back, though weak..  
  
“But would that would kill anyone.” You make the mistake of trying to imagine it and the relief you’ve been feeling starts to be mingled with fear.  
  
“But I’m not just anyone.”  
  
You must still look worried because he follows up with “Wouldn’t you agree?”  Then he takes your hand and kisses it and when your eyes meet, he tugs slightly and gives a sly smile that you can only read as a renewed invitation.

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	13. The sky may blush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can feel the echoes of last night all over you.

You wake alone in late morning.  
  
It was no dream. You can feel the echoes of last night all over you. There are no other traces of Loki left though, not even his scent or a telltale strand of hair in the bed, nothing but the delicious ache inside you and, written across your palm, the words ‘Until tonight’. On the other hand you find the words ‘Tell no one’.  You wish you didn’t have to wash them off, but their very message means you will. You don’t remember him writing on you, didn’t feel a thing.  You had to have been too deeply asleep. Another sign of how thoroughly he’d loved you. After he third time, you didn’t so much sleep but fall into a sated oblivion.  
  
 The inked words drift away in the water, but even without them you feel as though anyone could read the truth just by looking at you.  In the mirror there’s nothing to see, not even any marks of chafing from the armor, which has also conveniently disappeared, but your mind won’t stop flitting between memories of last night and nervousness about tonight, and that’s hours away yet. You can’t risk seeing anyone who knows you well today. You are too volatile.  
  
Unable to face breakfast, you wonder what to do. You are not expected at the healing rooms and any of your friends, if you sought them out, would see your inner turmoil at once. Instead, because you want to burn off your nerves and perhaps because you are a glutton for punishment, you go to the training grounds and find one of the sparring coaches — didn’t Odin say he wanted everyone to be ready to fight to defend the realm? — but the trainer soon sends you away, saying you are clumsy, impetuous and over-aggressive today; to come back when you’ve cooled off.  
  
Finally, you decide to go for a ride. You take Nara out, leaving the city behind. Up on the plains under the clear autumn sky you gallop, letting her have her head and the brisk air rush into your lungs.  You almost forget what awaits you until you have at last slowed and turned for home. The heat from Nara’s body rises like steam in the cooling air, and you slow to a walk, then dismount to let her rest before you near the first habitation.    
  
 The city lies ahead, lamps starting to glow in the waning light. You’re still incredulous at Loki’s survival, but profoundly grateful. You put your arms around Nara’s long chestnut neck and let it all out — everything — describing your hopes, fears and last night’s encounter in such detail that it would make a person blush, but not Nara, she just blinks her big equine eyes totally without judgement. You feel a renewed relief and allow yourself to gently cry into her mane before you remount and start toward the city.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
You get back to the palace just as dusk is falling and without having seen a single familiar face all day.  As you cross before the royal apartments though, there’s Odin standing before then at the top of the great steps.  He’s backlit in blue from the room behind him and is gazing out into the empty sky, smiling faintly. He must know of Loki’s survival, but cannot know that you do too.  
  
Your path lies right in front of him.  
  
There’s no worse person to for you to see right now.  Not only does he give you the feeling that could unmask all of your secrets with his single eye or even with his missing one, those secrets presently include some particularly salacious things you did with his (very much alive) son last night and several you’d perhaps like to try in a few hours.  
  
But there’s no avoiding him.  
  
“Good evening your Majesty.” you say, as demurely as possible, as you are passing.  
  
“Good evening. And a fine one it is.” He seems a shade happier than the last time, Loki’s return no doubt, and hope against hope that he won’t want you to play chess, which apart from the fact that you couldn’t muster the concentration right now, could make you late for your rendezvous with Loki.  
  
You cannot think of any small talk worthy of the situation and feel anything you said now would sound phoney. You have to get away, but he’s looking at you and you’ve got to say something.  
  
You cast your eyes a second in the direction he was looking earlier and then it comes to you.  
  
“Where are the ravens Sire?” That must have been what he was looking for, or at least it’s plausible. You want to be away, to wash the mud off before Loki returns.  You try hard not to think of Loki in front of Odin. The blue light reflects on stray stands of his silver hair. It’s something unnatural, perhaps its from one of the magical relics brought from the vaults to help rebuild the city.  
  
“Oh.” Odin says. “I sent them on a world tour.” And he looks away and off into the distance again. “Though I do worry about them sometimes.”  
  
“I hope they will be home soon your majesty.” You say, hoping that your concern and confusion, if visible, appear to be about the voyaging birds. If he can hide Loki’s return so well, then so will you, even though you’ve no idea for the reason.  
  
You take your leave, your muddied riding clothes providing an excellent excuse.  Thankfully there is no mention of chess.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Once you are alone again in the sanctuary of your apartments you go to your bathroom. You open the broad windows to the balcony and let the steam from the hot water billow out, wafting into the growing night. Here you cannot be seen, except of course to one with magic, which is rather what you are hoping.  
  
You strip off your riding clothes and carefully rinse off any mud before slipping into the water. You’ve added few drops of spiced oil, turning the bath a milky turquoise. Its scent makes you think of the nights you’d prepared to seek a lover, the times you went hunting for a companion of fortune in the parties or tavern.  The nights you knew how it would end, but not with who. Here you know with who and you don’t need to go hunting. The wait won’t be long you are sure, but you take your time.  You know the oil will coat your skin finely with a flavor a lover finds irresistible.    
  
One by one you clean your toes, focusing on details you haven’t noticed for what seems like months, trying to see them as though through his eyes. They must seem so tiny to him. You think of his toes, him flexing them, then of his fingers.  By the time he gets here you will be more than ready for him.  
  
The air has chilled outside and through the open doors it has turned the bathroom into part of the night, with just a couple of candles giving light.  Your face is cold compared with the rest of your body under the water so you duck your head under, warming your cheeks, then come up for air and feel the cold on your wet skin again, twice as alive. You do the same with a leg, an arm, playing with the sensation.  There’s so much steam you can barely see your own limbs.  
  
Loki anounces his arrival by closing the balcony doors.  He could have crept up on you, but no, he’s done enough of that.  
  
“Good evening, my love, care if I join you.”  
  
You have a feeling that the both of you in the tub is both a wonderful and a very bad idea.  
  
You can’t see much of him through the mist, only a shape, but you hear him step closer. Can he see you, hidden by the steam and coloured water? Then you can’t hear his steps anymore.  He must be barefoot… naked?  
  
And then his face appears, hair curling at the ends in the damp from the air.  You were right, as far as you can see he’s not wearing a stitch of clothing.  
  
Right now you could tease him – duck under and escape - or you could even grab and try to pull him in, but no, you let him kiss you gently, then gradually, with a hum of assent welcome him to you and into the warm water. As he sinks down onto you and the water level rises and splashes over the edges. It’s sublime to touch like this, underwater and also grossly impractical, everything slides and there’s so little room. But for mouths, and for hands, fingers… and toes, which - stepping beyond your fantasies - he meticulously kisses and sucks until you writhe, gasp and almost drink a mouthful of bath water.  
  
You’re both laughing. The candlelight enhances the light and shadows, making his eyes still darker and his skin glisten. He rises, sending water running down his body and displaying for an instant just how aroused he is. Then he helps you out and you step ungracefully on rubbery limbs and lean on him, still grinning. He opens the door to the bedroom and the light falls through it onto his glistening skin. Before he can go any further though you pull him back and up against the wall. There you drop down, half kneeling before him to reach and take his erection in your mouth.  
  
He wasn’t ready for your boldness nor your expertise as you swallow him deeply without hesitation and draw off slowly with your mouth tight on him, before engulfing him once more.  
  
He gasps and you pull back again, holding him firmly with your lips until you reach the tip, where you swirl your tongue. He’s got his hands in your hair, but he’s already lost any chance of gaining control.  His only weapon against your concentration is his voice, though he doesn’t know it. He sighs and makes sounds of encouragement half mixed with words. You graze him with your teeth and hear a thud as he throws his head back against the wall. You concentrate on lavishing attention on him, searching with you tongue for the most sensitive place, teasing with your teeth, than wrapping a firm hand around the base as you find your target and he moans in appreciation.  
  
The bath has warmed the air of the room slightly since he closed the windows but there’s still goose bumps on your skin and you shiver as you feel water from your hair running down your back. His skin says as smooth as ever.  
  
While you know that last night was probably his first time in a long time, it told you a lot about his sexual appetite. Right now, you want the get him off as fast as possible and he isn’t making any objections. Not only are you politely letting him go first, but you know your pleasure will be greater for it later, when you can take it slow.  
  
He shivers and you look up at him and you know it was not from cold but from you. He’s leaning his head down now, hair all wet from a plunge he took under the water to tease you momentarily, the time of a lungful of air. You stare into his eyes and suck hard, rubbing just a touch with your teeth and his hands clench and he gives way with a stream of praise for your mouth, as you lick and swallow, endeavoring to leave him totally clean of his salty seed.  
  
You struggle to your feet and lead him into the bedroom.He slings an arm around you and you grab some towels as you make your way to the settee. There you dry him fastidiously as he lays boneless, letting you touch him everywhere. You examine him in detail while he dozes, the healed wound on his torso is not his only scar and each must have its story. You hope he will tell you them all someday.  
  
Little by little you see his eyes become keener and start to watch your movements.  Ready for a sign, you let your robe fall open and lay yourself over him. He doesn’t let you stay like that for long – he sits up, pulling you with him until he’s sitting and you’re in his lap.  You continue your attentions, drying his hair, which he loves, then his ears - and there’s a discovery - his ears are super sensitive and when you caress them his whole body tenses against you.  
  
You’re already straddling him when he asks you and it doesn’t take much to move up and slide down on his hardened cock, slowly and luxuriantly, as he urges you on until you’re full of him.  
  
You take it slow, a steady hypnotic rhythm as he thumbs your nipples and looks at you through his lashes. You don’t pick up speed, this is enough. The slowness and repetition in itself enough to drive you on, making you hot and breathless until you’re stuggling to control your pace, as each stroke gets better and better. He is amused and then he takes things into his own hands, bouncing you on him, giving you dizzying jolts of pleasure. Seeing the effect, he continues, harder, his own breath coming harshly now as he watches you, enjoying your loss of control. You feel your climax nearing and hold tight to him, burying your face in his chest. But he shakes you free and holds you so he can watch your face as orgasm takes you and when you open your mouth to cry out he kisses you roughly, before pushing you down on you back in the cushions and thrusting hard into you with a possessive growl. Once, twice… on the third stoke he stops, his voice shrinking to a whimper, and you feel him shudder. He screws his face up as if in pain and then goes completely slack, dropping down beside you breathing hard and murmuring your name.  
  
As soon as you can move, you clean each other and sojourn to the bed. He is all smiles and softness and you keep at bay the questions already rising in your mind, you would have the real world stop at the entrance to your chambers tonight.


	14. A place where it's always safe and warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s stretched inelegantly, an arm thrown above his head and his hair in disarray, half over his face, the rest in an inky tangle over the pillow. 
> 
> (more smut)

You wake with a jolt to Loki calling you urgently. At least that’s what you think you hear. Once you’re awake however, it’s clear that he’s not even making proper words, just disjointed syllables. He’s all tensed up beside you, twisting his body to and fro as though trying to escape something, brow furrowed and eyes closed tight. It takes you a moment to realize he’s still asleep.

You’d been lying, clean and tired, your head on his chest, his hand carding your hair. You must have fallen asleep like that with the lamps still on.

Now they cast their warm glow on quite a different situation. His pained expression deepens even as you say his name. You try to rouse him quickly to break him out from his nightmare.

“Loki.” You say a bit louder over the strained sounds he’s making. You put your arms around him, but he throws you off. So you box him in the sides and start to shake him. He wakes with a start, breathing heavily and staring at you in incomprehension, as though he can’t tell where the dream ends and reality begins. For a good few seconds he seems completely disorientated, then all the tension drops out of him and his features soften with relief.

Now he’s out of the nightmare he lets you hold him.

“What happened?” your voice is weaker than you’d like it to be. You wanted to sound reassuring, not scared.

He gives a big sigh, a sad smile and offers you a single word.

“Sand.”

“Sand? What do you mean? Tell me. What was that? Your mission? Tell me everything.”

But he just sighs again and wraps an arm around your shoulders.

“Some things you are safer not knowing.”

“But I want _you_ to be safe.”

“And I want _you_ to be safe.” He says, pulling you closer. “It’s so good here.” And his words seem so very grateful that you stop and ask no more questions. It makes you warm inside to think that you managed to calm him and chase away his demons.

He makes a flourish with his fingers that turns the lights off and settles in against you in silence. Within minutes he’s asleep again.

That’s the moment you know you will continue to love him, regardless of his secrets and of the consequences. You’re glad he cannot see your face right now for he would know your feelings and he has never spoken to you of love.

So now you have your secret too. You breathe him in and let sleep take you.

 

 

 

 

There’s the reassuring presence of another next to you when you wake in morning. The slowness of Loki’s breathing tells you the storm has passed and he feels peaceful and safe here with you.

He’s stretched inelegantly, an arm thrown above his head and his hair in disarray, half over his face, the rest in an inky tangle over the pillow. He would fix it in an instant if he knew. But he's blissfully unaware, so it’s like you are looking in on a secret part of him.

He has one long leg sticking out from under the sheets, dappled by the early morning light. You don’t know whether to cover him up or to chase the sheet upwards with your hand and reveal more. You do neither. The picture is too perfect to disturb, even though it makes you want him more than is reasonable.

Instead you slip out to the bathroom to splash some water on your face.

You were sure he was asleep a moment ago, but when you turn to creep back, you see that the bed is empty. Has he gone already? Your heart sinks. Then, before you can take another step he’s upon you, pinning you to the wall with his body, warm from the bed and just as naked as your own.

“I must be gone.” he says, but he tightens his hold around you as he says it. Then breathes into your neck, “Soon…” as his words morph into a kiss.

He guides you, a hand tight but welcome on your wrist. You think he’ll take you back to bed but instead he leads you into the closet, past your sleeping rows of clothes, to the dressing table.

He bends you face down over it as you hum in agreement. This won’t be nearly as comfortable as the bed, but promises to be far more intense. You lean back into him as he drapes himself over you, his movements languid except for that one part of him that is very much awake and pushing into the soft skin of your hip. Your head’s too low in this position for you to watch him in the mirror but you hear him pick up one of the jars from the tabletop and open it. From the smell, he’s chosen a cream for removing make-up – one that’s very smooth and greasy. You just know what he’s going to do and tense in anticipation. One of his hands pushes your thighs apart slightly and the other puts a handful of cream right over your most sensitive place. It’s so cold you wince and shudder, but the sensation sends wonderful chills running all over your body and you find yourself gasping with pleasure as he starts to spread the cream everywhere, making a complete mess.

“Yes!” you sigh, pressing into him again.

“Yes?” he asks with a laugh in his voice. He starts to rub you, hard, knowing he wont hurt you because he can only slide. Every time he pulls his hand away or brings it back, there’s a filthy wet sound that makes you both snigger. The scent of it surrounds you - gardenia. You’re sure that you are never going to be able to clean make-up off without thinking of this.

He massages your ass and thighs, dipping ever the more often deep between your legs until you are slick everywhere and burning and shivering for him. He rubs you where he knows it will have the most effect, his hands too slippery to have any purchase. Then he sets about fingering you thoroughly in a way guaranteed to drive you crazy. You didn’t think it possible that you could want him more, but within minutes he has you writhing and moaning against the hard marble tabletop. He stops and withdraws his hands slowly.

There’s a pale glow through the door to the bedroom but you can’t see much by it – folded as you are. But he must be able to see himself in the mirror above you. If you could only raise your head and see him too… As he penetrates you, Loki lets out a satisfied “Ahhh.”, then he moves, faster and harder than you thought possible, pushing you flat against the dressing table with his thrusts. He makes pleading and whimpering sounds and renews the intensity. It’s unstoppable, you take a gulp of air and hold it, the pleasure rising. He is so strong though. You push back with all your force and he just keeps going. He makes a pained cry and grabs your shoulder clumsily. You think this is it, but his hand slips right off. You seize the chance to push yourself up on your arms and finally get a look in the mirror.

He has his head flung back and his mouth open, baring his neck in a long pale curve. Your own reflection is barely recognizable and entirely animal. You look just as you feel. Then he leans forward, and you see yourselves together, his eyes meet yours in the mirror, he pushes into you one more time and that’s all it takes to push you over the edge. You scream and are left shaking, scrabbling to keep your get as he keeps on pounding into you, sending wave after wave of pleasure though you until he makes another, barely audible, “Yes.” in your ear and loses his stride. As his movements get urgent and he moans and shudders to a halt, leaving your with wet warmth and whispered compliments. You try to stand but you are too wobbly. He catches you and holds you to his heaving chest.

Afterward, he carries you to bed, where he cleans you both and you try valiantly not to fall asleep, knowing he will be gone the moment you do.


	15. You better look hard and look twice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A session at the training grounds reveals rivalries old and new.

  
You manage to help the healers later that morning without being distracted, the events of the night dropping beneath the surface of the day.  
  
The kind of injuries you’re seeing these days are from the work sites or training grounds. It’s a comforting evolution. You know you are doing good by the simple tasks you do and by being there for the patients.  It saves the healers’ time that you do the jobs that don’t need special powers and you wonder if what you do is what healers do in realms without magic.    
  
They never question what you are doing here, a woman with to healing gifts and such means that she doesn’t need a job — they are just happy that you come. The one time you apologized to Madame Eir for not having any magic, she told you there was no problem, that you had something else.  
  
  
  
  
It’s on your break that Loki finds his way back into your thoughts.  Fantasies were distracting enough, but recent memories, vivid, flawless and unbidden are much more powerful. You kept your mind away from them as you worked, but standing alone in the wash room, the midday sun filtering down on you through a skylight, you think of the light on his skin this very morning and it all comes flooding back — the warmth of affection, all the sense memories of his hands on you and the way his voice deepened when you make love….You feel a flush of heat flood through you and try to push the thoughts away before someone else comes in here. But the burning dies away quickly enough all by itself as doubt rises and fills you instead; Loki said nothing about when he’d return.  
  


  
  
It’s a warm afternoon and the training grounds are already full of people by the time you get there.  You can’t see Asta anywhere, despite a promise she made to meet you here. All around, people of all ages train to fight in all manner of ways, wrestling, fencing, kick-fighting, swords, spears, staffs… The dust clings to everyone’s clothes until people start to look alike. So you wander around, hoping to find Asta and trying to decide which discipline to work on.  You want to fill the hours before dusk with something other than waiting and wondering.  
  
Martial arts are not really Asta’s style and you wonder if she’s bottled out.   There are plenty of familiar faces here though. Hogun is giving a demonstration of club-swinging and Volstagg is standing in the wrestling area challenging people to try to knock him down, while a trainer is showing them how to fall safely.  
  
There are people with practice swords and spears in pairs and groups everywhere, the weapons glowing, marking the advantage of one or other opponent.    
  
“Hey.” A familiar voice calls. It’s not Asta, but Fandral. He clearly just got here because he’s dust free. “You’re looking good,” he says. “I mean it’s good to see you looking better.” And then he grins and it’s a relief. “So, have you come to make a killing.”  
  
You don’t know what to say so you laugh.  
  
“I’m meeting a friend.”  
  
“Ah-ha.”  
  
“No not 'Ah-ha’, we’re going to train” He raises an eyebrow.  
  
“Me to. Actually I’m going to try my hand at knife throwing.”  
  
“Oh?”    
  
“Well you know me, always hungry for new experiences.” And he winks. “Truth be told its something I need to work on it, and we have to give the example.  And what weapon do _you_ chose?” You can tell he still thinks you’ve come here on the pull. “Tempted by the  big stick?” And he nods at the quarterstaff area and you blush. “I’ll be giving a sword demonstration later, don’t miss it. Ciao.”  
  
And he’s gone.  
  
At least there wasn’t a trace of the worry he’s shown in recent weeks and thankfully he didn’t mention Loki. You don’t want him prying, not now.  
  
Fandral had never showed interest in knives in the past, that was Loki’s area of expertise. For one as good with a sword as Fandral, it was easy to neglect other disciplines. Throughout their youth, Fandral excelled at sword fighting while Loki was always behind him.  
  
  
  
  
_You remember the time Loki charmed a sword to practice with him on its own. That way he could work on his swordsmanship at all hours with no need to find a partner. Why this was so important you never knew._  
  
_The trouble with the enchanted sword was that its skills were only equal to Loki’s, and it was just as unpredictable. He received several nasty gashes before he realized that this wasn’t the answer, but by then the sword had learnt how to do more than fight. Loki tried to undo the spell, but the sword got wise to his plan and went into hiding. It had all his cunning too and an insatiable need to play, so when it went feral, it was almost impossible to control.  It roamed the corridors and grounds of the palace by day and night, jumping out and randomly challenging passersby, whether they be guards, chambermaids or the King himself. Though some warriors saw this as a challenge and tried to hunt the sword down, their quests were fruitless. It was only when it took the entire palace kitchen staff hostage that Frigga stepped in once more and canceled the spell._  
  
  
  
  
Goaded by Fandral you do indeed go to train at stick fighting. You’d forgotten how heavy the staffs were, and how jarring the hitting and blocking was.  The coach matches you with someone of the same size and weight, something you’d be lucky to get in a real fight, but this is for practice, for play, for fun almost… if it wasn’t so hard, if you weren’t watching every second for the blow that might land you in the healing rooms for all the wrong reasons. You know so much more about bodies now, which means you could play dirty if you wanted, but that’s not your way. You win squarely by knocking the staff from your opponent’s hands as she’s changing grip. There’s a rest period just long enough to get your breath back and change partners for another bout. This time the pairing is anything but equal: you’re facing Lady Sif.  
  
She greets you enthusiastically, smiling, confident, deadly, beautiful — she should really leave her hair like that — but you’ve no time for such observations nor smalltalk, you have to block her attacks, which are quick and forceful and remind you of all your weaknesses. You are neither as rapid nor as strong.  You cannot truly fight her at all, only defend yourself. Sif is not Asta, and this is not fun. You’re outmatched and Sif knows it.  Why is she facing you at all?  She doesn’t give you any time to ponder such things, her parries multiply and her blows rain down on your staff.  But even so she is not at full strength, she’s going easy on you.  It’s frustrating being shown your powerlessness like this.  You both have your staffs horizontal now and you field blow after blow. Your only possible advantage is your stamina if you can only resist long enough.  
  
Then she throws all her weight behind one strike, so you do too. But she doesn’t rebound, she just keeps pushing. She’s there in your face, smiling still, baring her teeth, forcing her staff against yours, close enough that you smell her sweat.  It reminds you, that despite her performance she is a still a person and not a fighting machine. It’s no crime to lose against the best, but here it’s not a case of losing, more one of surviving and limiting injury.  
  
She lets go with a sudden “Gah.”  
  
You fall forward and almost miss your footing and she’s quick to swing the staff back into a fencing position.  She could have had you, in a real fight your adversary would have moved in quick for a blow to the head, but Sif waits, holding her staff in position, she wants to continue.  She looks you in the eye, her full concentration on you and you alone.  She nods and the fight continues. You’re tired and you can tell she is too. Now it’s a matter of who makes a mistake first and you don’t have long to wait. She is distracted a moment by something over your shoulder, you don’t look around, you push home your advantage, hitting her staff sideways to loosen her grip, but then she turns back to you and goes all out to finish the bout, no longer holding back, but pushing you back with multiple strokes that set you off balance, Then she slams down her staff just where it will trip you. You tumble, dropping your staff and grabbing fruitlessly at hers.  The fight comes to its inevitable conclusion — you in the dirt with her staff your face her smile above it. You look down at yourself, you’re covered in dirt and sweat, your butt aches where you fell on your tailbone. Then you look up at her once more but she’s looking away over your shoulder.    
  
“I yield.” you say to get her attention  
  
You could grab her staff by the end and continue the fight, but you’ve nothing more to give. Not only are you no match for her, but she’s lost interest. She helps you up, tells you you’re better than she thought, which is kind of arrogant but doubtless honest. She’s distracted though.  You glance over in the direction she’s looking, toward the sword fighting area.  
  
Many others nearby have also stopped to look, a particular fighting pair are the subject of everyone’s interest. Fandral and… Odin!  
  
“What?”  
  
They have practice swords, which is just as well as they are really going for it, the ‘blades’ clashing together this way and that.  
  
Sif rolls her eyes. “He’s going to get his ass handed to him.” She can only mean Fandral.  She wouldn’t talk that way about the King. For you, the outcome isn’t nearly so sure.  
  
Fandral has always been a joy to watch sword fighting. It’s one of the reasons women flock to him. They like a good show.  But Odin…You have never seen him fight with a sword. Could it be he’s doing the same as Fandral earlier and playing his weak suit deliberately?  That’s a tremendous thing to do — for a King to show weakness before the people — and against Fandral of all fighters…  
  
Perhaps Sif is right, and Odin excels at sword fighting as in many other things. But it would surprise you.  It looks on many levels as though Fandral has the advantage, it’s his weapon of choice whereas Odin doesn’t use usually use a sword. He doesn’t need one, he has Gungrir, which could out do any weapon.  Yet there he is.  
  
With only one eye, Odin’s judgement of distance must be lessened and he is an older man, you would expect him to be slower.  But that is where you are wrong. Odin throws his body around like someone much younger, he dodges, he feints and it’s as though he has not just two eyes but perhaps more. It is only the sword itself that seems to be his handicap. The points he scores on Fandral are mostly because he is so unpredictable.  
  
 You can tell from Fandral’s face — they have decided not to wear protective masks, the fools — that he is impressed, it can’t be often someone surprises him.  
  
 “He’s teaching him a lesson.” Sif breathes. And you feel fear in her voice. They both defied Odin when they helped Thor.  And though it was for the good in the end, she thinks this may be Odin’s way of showing his supremacy.  Or attempting to… Odin loses a volley of points to Fandral as the latter marks a touch to his chestplate.  
  
There are murmurs and cries from the crowd each time one of them scores a point over the other, but the people carefully do not cheer for either of one of them in particular. You find yourself — ridiculously — afraid for Odin. Afraid he will be humiliated because you don’t doubt that Fandral is the stronger of the two.  
  
You’ve moved closer without noticing yourselves doing it.  The crowd is denser and all are focused on the fight.  Behind the fencing ring, you catch sight of Asta, immaculate right down to her spotless shoes and by her, your mother.  
  
Watching Fandral, you can see, without the slightest pinch of pain all that once attracted you to him and you hear, in the intakes of breath and gasps from beside you, how much Sif is with him. You know she’s not be alone in that admiration. But as for you, you are watching and, yes, even rooting for Odin in this match.  Despite his extra years and experience it is he the underdog.    
  
Why is he doing this?  You don’t believe its to teach a lesson. You think it’s to encourage the people, to show bravery and be ready to lose face, for Odin will surely lose.  
  
The fighters circle one another, watching, ready for the other to move, it’s a respite. The silence is only broken by Odin’s labored breathing.  Their movements accelerate.  You’ve watched Fandral so many times that you know that he is about to move…right…now.  
  
Seemingly at the same second Odin leans in the opposite direction, looses his balance and actually falls, the crowd gasp, a look if terror crosses Fandral’s features, this was obviously not the move he’d been intending.  Moreover, as he hits the ground, Odin loses his grip on his sword which flies up in the air and Fandral, as would be expected in a true fight steps forward to hold him at his mercy with the tip of his sword. But, with the speed of his fall giving him impetus, Odin rolls. He catches the sword in his other hand, jumps to his feet and with a twisting movement pries Fandral’s weapon out of his hand.  
  
The reversal of roles happens so quickly it’s a shock. The crowd stare silence, hardly believing what they just saw or what they’re seeing;  the King, panting in a manner most unbecoming of a monarch, with Fandral disarmed and confused standing before him.  It takes people a second or two to register and then the cheering starts.  Fandral sheepishly raises both hands in front of him, then kneels and salutes Odin.  Your mother runs forward and raises Odin’s arm in the air and there’s even more cheering.  
  
You put a hand to your face “Mother, No.” you hiss to yourself. “Don’t be so embarrassing.” Sif hears you and smiles, her relief at the bloodless outcome tangible on her face.  
  
  
  
  
  
The evening is comes bringing with it anticipation and doubt but not Loki. You’d effectively blocked him from your thoughts for a few hours, but now he’s back with a vengeance. You are weary and aching, especially your butt where you fell it, but you stay up, waiting.  
  
When it gets late and Loki still isn’t there you decide to wait in bed. Your muscles ache from the fight and behind it is the echo of this morning, last night - and the night before that. You haven’t had so much exercise in a long time.  
  
You are barely aware and far closer to sleep than any other desire when a familiar shape slides under the sheets behind you, already comfortably warm — because he can do that can’t he. You relax into him and without a word sink into sleep.  



	16. Dark and dangerous like a secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What really happened on Svartalfheim

That night you’re dragged again from sleep at some unnameable hour. Loki’s hands clasp at you, never gripping, forever sliding, ever searching for a tighter hold. It’s another nightmare, but more intense.  You call his name but he doesn’t respond and flails like someone drowning. Outside, the sky throws rain in lashes against the roof, as though mirroring his agitated state or mocking it. Finally, he gets a hold of you and pulls you roughly to him; not in a loving or passionate way, but desperately, his fingers digging in, his breathing harsh and uneven against you.  
  
You struggle and yell at him because it hurts. You try to shake him awake or at least off of you, but he’s too strong and he’s holding you so tight that you can barely move. Loki meanwhile barely stops moving, writhing as though thrown around by a rough sea.  
  
You think of the wards he set to prevent others hearing if you got too vocal during sex. He’s made the room impervious, like a magic island.  But it was only an illusion that nothing could touch you here, he’s brought his own monsters with him.  
  
Little did you think that Loki himself could be a threat. You can’t wake him and you can’t call for help - as if would you ever do such a thing. By throwing your lot in with Loki you have thrown out other options. You can’t even reach to put on the light, but least you can still breathe. So you talk to him. All this is only his mind, and that you can sooth.  
  
“Relax. It’s alright. I’m here. You can let me go Loki. I won’t run away.”  
  
It’s pathetic, it feels like he can’t hear you at all. “It’s alright, I’m here.” You repeat. You think of the man you saved the day of the air raid, how your words worked that time, because you did save him, the healer’s told you.  Even though it was they who did the hard part.  
  
You keep on on. “It’s alright, I’m here. Calm down, they can’t hurt you.” But his fingers don’t loosen and his breathing won’t calm. “Loki?” Then, because you can, you start to tell him other things.  
  
“You can’t keep doing this Loki, you’ve got to tell somebody. Did you ever tell somebody? Why don’t you tell me. Oh where in the realms do you go all day? What would I do if you didn’t come home?  What would your father do?” Then you realize that the answer to the last question is probably nothing. Loki is already dead for the whole of Asgard except a chosen few.    
  
And those certainly don’t include Thor.  
  
“Oh Loki, why don’t you tell your brother you’re alive?”  
  
And then he’s gasping for air as though he had indeed been under water. He’s panting and coughing and looking at you, eyes wild and then he mutters.  
  
“So is he.”  And, releasing you, he throws himself back on the bed beside you and closes his eyes an instant, still breathing heavily. You turn the lamp on and it glows dimly.  
  
“What? Who?” He opens his eyes and there is a weariness there of someone far older.  
  
“Malekith…” he breathes. The vanquished enemy? a name you’ve only heard from your parents, Odin and Thor. “Malekith lives.”  
  
And it all makes sense.  Odin’s continued concern for Asgard’s defense, the inciting of the populus to be ready.  
  
“But Thor said…”  
  
“What does Thor know? Did Thor see him die?” Loki gives a bitter laugh.  
  
“And what if he did? Should you believe him? Thor saw me die.”  
  
You don’t know how to respond. This doesn’t seem to bother him untowardly. You are both silent a moment, but you can hold it in.  
  
“Why have Thor think you dead?”    
  
“I had little choice at the time.  I thought me dead.”  
  
“I mean now.” You reach to touch him.  
  
Loki pulls away from you and sits on the side of the bed, head in his hands.  
  
“It’s alright.” You reach for him again and lay your hand on his shoulder.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Loki?”  
  
“No, it’s not alright. He’s still out there. I can’t rest…” and then he turns and uncovers his face, only it’s not his face but that of another. Half white as a sheet and wizened, the other half burnt black. The eyes shine a brighter blue than those of any Aesir, but the rest of his face is twisted and either colorless or charred.  
  
You scream.  
  
“Loki stop it. What is that? Don’t do this.”  
  
 Why frighten you like that?  
  
“Be afraid. But know him. It was _he_ who took my mother, not the monster I killed.  
  
“Please change back now.”  You’ve seen him change himself before, but why turn himself into this enemy here in your room.  In your bed! You are shaking with anger as much as with fear.  
  
Then he starts to change again under your gaze and you look for his familiar features. But no, his face remains foreign, but becomes softer. It’s clearly someone of the same race, but even without the contrast he’s shown you, you would find this face beautiful.  
  
And he smiles at you with this strangers face and you don’t know whether to be terrified or reassured.  
  
“Who?”  
  
“The one who saved me.”  
  
You wait for him to go on, searching these foreign features for some sign of how he feels about this person he’s mimicking.  
  
“I was supposed to die there…”  
  
In the silence that follows you hear his brief sigh as he stops himself and the drops of rain steadily hitting the window outside now. He’s going all kinds of dark places you weren’t expecting, but you wouldn’t stop now he’s talking.  
  
“I was ready to.” He has returned to his usual form and is laying close to you. You tuck yourself under his arm and he wraps it around you.  
  
“Svartalfheim is nothing but sand.  I’d been there before - just because I could - but there’s nothing, nothing but a land ravaged by the wind.” You’ve never been there, but you know the history.  
  
“The very planet was swallowing me. Thor thought I was dead. A sand storm blew up and he and Jane sought shelter. I couldn’t have called them if I’d tried.  
  
I would have been buried by it. My magic was enough to stop the bleeding but not the elements.  The grains came so fast it was like being bitten by a thousand insects and I couldn’t move. I would die, not by the blade, but at the hands of a vengeful planet.”  You don’t prompt, he’s telling you this because he wants to.  
  
He will tell you everything if you wait long enough.  
  
“What… and who, waits for us on the other side of death?” You think immediately of Frigga, if that is who he means, or could it be an adversary, past or present. There must be more than a few that haunt him. You enlace your fingers with his and squeeze gently in the hope of bringing his thoughts back from there.  
  
“Before, Svartalfheim was supposedly a paradise, but one in perpetual darkness.  The light destroyed life on the surface and the face of the land itself.  Now there is only the wind and the sand. It was building up all around me. If I couldn’t rise, it would soon cover my head, and I couldn’t because I was too weak and the wind too strong.”  
  
“I might have seen mother, but when I thought of her, I knew couldn’t let it end there.  Not like that, not while he, the one who had her killed, was still out there.”  
  
I could not rise, so I rolled.” He laughs at himself. “There wasn’t much of a slope and it was agony, but I stayed on the surface. I just hoped I could get to our craft, though I’d lost all sense of direction.  With the sand flying in my eyes and nose, All I could see was grey and and all I could taste was the foul stench of that place.  
  
 Finally, I could go no further, I was tempted to think the storm was waning or maybe it was my senses fading, But then, at the end of exhaustion, and too weak to fight anyone, I felt hands, there in the sand, grabbing me, dragging me.”  
  
Now you know you won’t sleep until you’ve heard the whole of this, but Loki has gone silent. You nudge him and he tightens the arm that’s draped around your shoulders and nuzzles your hair. He makes an audible sigh and then says:  
  
“Being a prisoner yet again, that was my first fear.” You wonder how he could find this worse than suffocation in a sand storm of Svartalfheim, but you let him go on. “I was helpless, if I was to be a prisoner and a pawn once more then there was nothing I could do. I had no idea who had taken me, who it was harshly dragging me.  Who it was who didn’t have the decency, or the strength, to carry me.  
  
They took me somewhere dark, completely dark, it must have been underground. They could see perfectly I think, but not I.  
   
I was tended to and left to rest on the floor, covered with sand, like everywhere else.  
  
I don’t know how much time passed, it was always dark.  When one of them came I made a little light by magic and they ran away, but not before I got a look at them.  I’d been taken by the dark elves.” You gasp audibly at that, thinking of the attack, of Frigga.  
  
“I was too weak to do anything but wait.  
She looked like him, like Malekith, the only other of them I ever saw without a mask.”  
  
“She?!” A girl dark elf? They have those?  
  
“What difference does it make?” So he met a girl on Svartalfhelm.  Met and was cared for by. You should be thankful, but you are still uneasy.  
  
“I learnt a lot about them in a short time. It is clear they do not all support Malekith.  This is why she helped me. She saw Thor and I fighting his party.  
  
They live in caves, in holes, in places dug out to find the darkness. I don’t know what they eat, if not the rock of itself, she had no food for me.  
  
  
  
  
  
"I gradually got better,  I imagined you, like a glimmer, a live thing, a promise." You take his hand in the gloom, afraid to let him see how those words affect you.  
  
"Then Malekith came back. Mutilated but not dead. We thought him crushed by his ship, but there were still those loyal to him who came to his aid that rescued him.”    
  
“But Thor believes him dead! The people…”  
  
“Have been shaken enough and are more than ready to defend the realm.”  
  
“But why let all Asgard think you dead?”  
  
“It’s safer that way. And besides, who would trust me?  I am better respected dead than I ever was alive.”  
  
“And Thor?”  
  
“I will tell him, when the time comes.” It doesn’t sound like he is in much of a hurry. “And then I will let him think it was the trick of the century.”  
  
With that he lays down again and rolls on his side.  He cradles you to him, and you feel his silent laughter vibrating against your back.  
  
_Oh but you didn’t see him. Loki._ You want to say, but it wouldn’t help.  
  
He falls asleep, perhaps happy to have shared all this with you, but you remain awake, going through it all in your mind. You are glad Thor is away, keeping Loki’s secret from him would be too hard with him around.  
  
Oh why did Loki have to burden you with such secrets? But then you look at him, peaceful and beautiful.  The biggest secret is his life, the pulse thrumming softly under your hand and your own heart is singing with it.

 

 


	17. You are the clever one aren't you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki smolders, Reader embarrasses herself and Mother puts her oar in.
> 
> Warnings: Animal experimentation, use of the F-word and a reference to war crimes (skip the section between the asterisks).

You’re aware that you are leaning slightly on Dagny, on her good side. It could look companionable to anyone just glancing at you, but in fact you’re falling from sleep.  This morning was fine, but here, standing listening to Odin’s latest speech, you’re paying the price for your short night.  You wanted to hear the official line though. How much of what Loki told you are the people allowed to know? How much of what you know will you have to hide. Everything it seems. In Odin’s speech, there is nothing to suggest that Malekith is still at large, just plenty about the glory of Asgard, a monument to Frigga that will be built, and praise for the good work of the builders repairing the city.  He drones on rather, his habitual dramatic pauses seeming more like an old man losing his way. You long for it to be over, stifle your yawns and lean on your friend.  Dimly you register Asta moving to support you from the other side.  
   
Odin doesn’t talk about Asgard’s allies on Svartalfheim. Is _that_ where Loki has been going? You usually manage to avoid thinking of him during the day but here you drift off - imagining his voice, his warmth against you, his hair touching your face. The trouble is there’s not just him there in your thoughts. There’s the elf girl. She saved his life — he is indebted to her. You are indebted to her! The face that he showed you was both alien and beautiful.  Was that because he found her beautiful?  
  
You are sagging into Dagny and she pushes you upright. Odin is reminding all present of the importance of fighting skills once more. Then he starts talking again of the glory of Asgard. It’s a speech you’ve heard time and again since childhood.  His voice, deep and proud lulls you with its familiarity.  You know these words by heart.  
  
Asta gives you a sharp a dig in the ribs and you’re suddenly awake, like you fell here. It’s only then that you realize you had been fully sleeping, standing propped up between your friends. You can’t hear Odin’s voice any longer and it’s not a dramatic pause. You glance up toward the throne, terrified to be caught. But there your eyes meet not the condemning stare of the King but those of your own mother. She’s up there on the dais in front of the throne and for a moment you haven’t the slightest idea why. But your confusion and her glare are over in a moment as she continues talking, telling the crowd how her team are working to harness the power of the Aether.  It’s simplified for the masses but you still don’t understand much. You only know that if your mother and her team at the armory are involved, then any harnessing is unlikely to be for peaceful purposes.  
  
When she’s finished, Odin thanks her and there’s a round of applause. It’s over. The crowd disperse. You should be glad; you can go and rest now.  Only now of course you don’t feel tired anymore, only anxious.  
  
On the way out, your father greets you warmly.  He either missed the vital embarrassing moment or thinks it of no matter. You don’t see your mother afterwards though and decide you must go and apologize right away, rather than let your shame and her annoyance fester.  
  
                       

 

 

********************

 

 

The armory is set away from the palace but still within the protected perimeter.  You’ve got rocks in the pit of your stomach as you approach. This is supposedly a social call, but it doesn’t feel like one. When you ask for your mother, they send you on to her lab but you have to pass through a security point before they let you in.  That’s new.  Finally, you step into a great room divided by a glass screen.  Mother is back at work already. She hasn’t seen you and you know better than to disturb her. She lays out a bowl and hooked lance in the center of the workspace, then pulls on thick protective gloves.

On this side of the glass, protected from the experiments, there are books and papers everywhere. This is a place for planning research and discussing it. There are drawing boards, innumerable unnamed machines, and scrolls. This is a world where she once tried and failed to entice you. Against one wall are working models of some of their creations, a pivoting plinth for an antiaircraft weapon and various models of armor, including the one you so labored to get Loki out of.  

Mother has a workgroup with student apprentices from across the realms.  The two with her now are dwarves from Nidavellir.  Through the glass shield you see them supporting a shield of lead before the three of them while mother holds a spear with, at its end, an impaled cabbage. You almost laugh, but your mother’s expression is so serious that you simply wait and watch, wondering at what military significance this could possibly have.

On the opposite wall of the room, a door in the wall slides open and there emerges a bright-red horned creature.  As it advances, you see that it is in fact only a common goat, but bright red and pulsing.

The animal goes to take a bite from the proffered cabbage and as it does the red color jumps to the vegetable, leaving the goat’s coat a pure white.

The group go into action. Resting the shield down, one of the students lobs a second cabbage into a far corner and the goat goes running after it. Mother lowers the glowing one into the bowl you saw and her second assistant drops the lid from the end of the hook. There are audible sighs of relief.

She turns her head to you immediately. She must have known you were there all the time.  Then she smiles and it’s much more conciliatory than when she caught you napping earlier.  Perhaps this won’t be too bad.

She pulls off her gloves and enters the study area. Indicating a chair to you, takes the one opposite.

“Progress is so slow.”  She sighs.

You sit down and one of the students brings tea. There is the ceremony of offering, pouring, milk and sugar and stirring while you squirm inside. Then her eyes rise over her cup and meet yours.

“It’s good to see you, but we need to t–“ she stops herself an instant. The other student is still the experiment room, fussing over the goat; hugging him round the neck and calling him a ‘good boy’.

“Hornace. Stop that.” she calls to him. “We don’t know he’s safe yet.”

Then she turns back to you.

“Even at times like these…”

“Mother?”

“When will you take life more seriously and just, stop with this…?” she spreads her hands in an exasperated gesture.

Even in your tired state you understand what she thought she saw: you falling from sleep after a night of partying.  But it’s too complicated to deny and the truth must stay hidden at all costs.

“I thought, when you started to help the sick…” she continues. ”Well I thought it was strange – for you – but I was proud.  You were going somewhere, doing something more than galavanting.”

‘ _Galavanting_ ’? You’d hardly call calming Loki’s nightmares galavanting, but you’ll take the criticism rather than risk revealing anything.  
   
“But, now I see you with your friends, in the state you were in, in a speech by the King of all places. Thank goodness it wasn’t seen.”  She pinches her brow.

“Soon you will be old enough to bear children and marry. This will have to stop.”

_To bear children and marry._

Once you would have retorted that you wanted to make the most of your freedom, but her comments are so at odds with reality that you don’t know how to reply. You stay silent.

“You know this. I don’t have to tell you,” she says. “I don’t like having to tell you, But try…Try to start behaving like an adult.  Your lifestyle is so….“ She can’t relate.  This you know.  You couldn’t make her understand it if you tried.  And she’s got it all so wrong anyway.

Your eyes have wandered back to the armor model as she’s talking.  She notices and narrows her eyes.  

“Very proud of that one. If only everything were so simple.”

“Its very robust.” You say, hoping to divert the subject.

“Fuckproof,” she affirms.

“What?” You feel yourself blush, shocked by her use of the word.

“But then you knew that.” And you’re blushing no longer.  Your blood runs cold. How could she know? Were you and Loki seen?

Or could it be only that she’s only guessing, guessing that you’ve tried to have relations with men in armor before. Your heart is thudding. That she knows the truth is impossible. That she simply thinks the worst of you… Ridiculously, that’s the vastly preferable option.

“The whole point being that our warriors bring their passions home with them. Something I think you’ve appreciated a great deal up until now. But the time’s coming when you have to make a choice. Find a husband.”

Once upon a time you might have answered back that ‘appreciating’ was the best way to choose objectively (with no intention of actually doing so), but at the moment that choice would be easy.  Impossible,  but easy.  Meanwhile, she’s virtually accused you of harassing on-duty guardsmen. You can feel your anger rising, but you hold it down.

“Mother, I know. But I am years from being able to bear a child.”

“I thought you were gaining in responsibility, yet you still consider life a party.”

You know what you want to say - What is life if you don’t enjoy it to the max? But you hold your tongue, just hoping she’ll finish.

“You need to slow down and choose one who is worthy to love properly.”

“What if I already had?” you say, defiant and finally too tired and angry to stop yourself.

First, she looks at you in surprise, then with scrutiny. You’re not lying, you don’t need to. She looks shocked, disbelieving, confused, and then…elated.  

You’re horrified at the turn this has taken and at yourself. You can’t take it back, can’t hide it. Only try to limit the damage.

“Oh but that’s wonderful, darling,”

“Please, please, its early days. Please don’t ask to meet him yet.”

She’s smiling broadly now and it’s far worse than anything she said.

What can you do? You can’t produce him. You’re sworn to silence and it’s almost a no go subject – all wrapped up in Loki’s secret.

Between the you and Loki it’s just so very real. Why is he holding it back from existing in the real world? It’s not that Loki ‘meeting your parents’ is something you relish, but why oh why can’t he come home properly?

She doesn’t press, just wishes you well and let’s you go.  She looks pleased and you feel like you’ve been played.  Those few seconds when you thought she knew everything she was just trying to goad you with vulgarity. And she succeeded.  
   
You traipse home, wondering how you will stop her from pressing for more details.  You’re amazed, afraid and intensely mad at yourself.

 

 

 

*********************

 

 

He’s already there when you arrive home, sitting in your reading chair. Light from the lamp warms the colors on his face. And, though he does look tired, he is beautiful. The sight of him chases everything else from your mind, like magic, like you’ve stepped into another world. He’s clearly just taken a bath and is wearing one of your peignoirs. An ample and unsexy garment, or so you thought. But seeing him in it, it’s as though you’ve already wrapped a part of yourself around him. His hair is damp and bits of it stick out at crazy angles. He’s either unaware or doesn’t care that you see him like that, which feels cozy… until he turns his gaze fully on you. It’s cold and serious and you are almost afraid for a second, until you realize that what you see here is lust, pure and simple. And it feels like it’s catching.

He’s staring. You might as well be naked, for he has stripped you with his thoughts. He comes no closer though and you watch as his eyes soften and his brow furrows with some unvoiced concern. He looks away again and you miss those eyes terribly. The moment passes and you’re still standing there, aware no one has said a word. Then he turns to you, his seriousness gone.

“I was hoping to help you wash as soon as you got home, but I think that can wait.”

Your breath catches as he rises, slowly and deliberately, his movement shifting the peignoir and drawing your eyes to the ‘v’ of skin that widens below his throat and down his chest, and yes, of course, he’s naked underneath. He holds out a hand to you and when you take it you feel the sureness of his grip. He looks you up and down and you wonder if he will disappear your clothes, but no.  He rests a hand on your hip and turns you, then starts unbuttoning your dress from behind, his breath hot on your neck.

He works slowly, kissing your nape all the while and you struggle to stay still. On him, you smell the notes of the spiced oil you put in the bath. He’s using your own weapons against you! Once the dress is loose enough he puts his hands inside and caresses you through your undergarments, then he starts to undo those too without finishing with the dress. All this is delaying things still further, but his mouth on your neck is persistent and when he succeeds in finding a particularly sensitive spot you cannot keep still or quiet any longer.

You’re half in and half out of two layers of clothes, hobbled by your dress and desperate with want when, in a single movement, he casts the spell that strips you naked and sweeps you up and onto the bed.

Still trailing your peignoir from his shoulders like a cape he’s upon you and in you all at once, hot, urgent and desperately welcome. You  enfold him in your arms and legs, entwining your heels behind his back as he moves, eyes gleaming and fixed on yours, grinning from ear to ear. He chases off all that remains of the stress and embarrassments of the day. He chases away the very need for words.

You spur one another on. You’re starting to be able to read him now, to know when he’s about to lose control. What’s more he knows for you. You see it in the quirk of his mouth, just before each of his breaths becomes a hissed ’Yes’. You love seeing the moment the venire of humor cracks revealing what’s behind. But it’s already too much - the weight of him, the heat of him and the feel of him inside you, so perfect. You couldn’t make a ‘yes’, or any other word for that matter, if you tried. You’re already shaking with pleasure when you feel the heat of his release.  
   
Your climax draws out as his moves slacken and he watches at you as you plead and sigh and stretch and arch with the sensation. He looks ridiculously pleased with himself.

When finally you have calmed, he leads you to the ready-warmed bathroom where you wash and dry each other fastidiously.

Then, wrapped, almost modestly, in towels, you return to the bedchamber.

The bed is a mess. You laugh when you see it. There is nothing modest or innocent about the state of the bed. And there creeps the shadow of your mother’s words, about your lifestyle, about your future. How you hate her for following you here.  
   
Loki’s magic has everything looking spick and span again in an instant but those rogue thoughts and the questions linger. You wish he could come home for real, or that he could at least tell you why not. You think with incredulity of him meeting your parents. Besides having to explain his return from the dead and obtain a formal pardon from his father, he is still, in the eyes of your parents, the boy who publicly embarrassed you and who got you lost in the forest when you were a little girl.

He’s looking at you, wondering perhaps why you aren’t saying anything.  He’s relaxed and you daren’t bring up such realities.  You don’t have the strength to ask him, you won’t break this moment. But then, thinking of all your past you remember something. A simple thing that symbolizes how closely you’ve been linked and for how long.

“I have something of yours.”

He hums like he’s known all along and smiles at you, softly in a way that makes you want to melt, a way that almost makes you forget everything.

You had only been thinking about a trinket. The pendant made from a stone that his mother made him give you as a child.

But his expression is so earnest and expectant that it hints at something much more profound and that gives you pause.

Could he be thinking of his heart?

 

 


	18. Making me dance, inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gift, a revelation, some pillow talk and some smut.

  
  
  
“Close your eyes."  
  
He does so without question. This is trust.  
  
You watch him for a moment, you’re repeatedly be astonished by darkness of his eyelashes against the pale of his skin.  
  
You slip off the bed and go take the pendant, holding it for a second against your naked throat. It glimmers green and you know you have made the right decision.  
  
“What are you doing? You’re up to something, I can tell.” he teases.  
  
The shimmers in the stone, with the way they move, remind you of his magic he makes. You trace the familiar shape in your palm, flat on one side to hang comfortably against one’s chest, rounded on the other to let the light catch it.  
  
Will he remember where it’s from? And is this wise - pulling up the past?  
  
“Sit up a minute.”  
  
He makes as if to complain but complies. Leaning back on his arms, his long body stretched out, covered partly by the towel.  
  
You put your arms around his neck and attach the chain. When the stone touches his skin it glows a deep blue you’ve never seen before. Then, as you watch, slivers of shimmering orange appear - reminding you of that one spell he cast on you the first night - before turning green again. It changes perpetually in fact. You couldn’t appreciate it nearly so much when you were wearing it.    
  
"Can I open them yet?”  
  
"But of course.”  
  
He looks down at the stone, then at you.  
  
When he does you get another surprise, the way it reflects his eyes. Both they and the gem shine twice as bright. You wonder if you will be able to resist him long enough to hold a conversation. The stone shows a hint of orange again and you ask yourself if it has some way of telling what you’re thinking.  
  
“Thank you.” He grins widely, his eyes crinkling. Clearly he does remember where it came from.  
  
Then he says: “I’m in terrible trouble.” but his smile never falters and you really don’t think it’s him whose in trouble here.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“You are a most dangerous woman, and one I never could trust with my secrets.” He says touching the stone. But as he says this he looks at you with such affection that you don’t believe a word. and the stone glows brightly once more, green this time. You are sure it was never quite so reactive to you.  
  
“I wish things were simple like when we were small.” you say.  
  
“I would be King.”  He states blandly, as though this means nothing (you strongly suspect otherwise).  
  
“And I would be Queen.” You risk. His expression doesn’t change. “At least until you pulled that stunt and sent me searching for jewels in bilgesnipe muck.”  
  
“I didn’t send you anywhere.” He smirks.  
  
“But you…I…?”  
  
“Oh you were always such fun to lead up the garden path.”  
  
“Didn’t you want a queen?” you’re still teasing, keeping it light, or trying to.  
  
“I didn’t consider.” Well at least he’s not lying in an attempt to be romantic.  
  
“You saw yourself ruling alone, adored by the people but with no one by your side? You never imagined…” It seems sad.  But then perhaps Loki would not want to be adored, feared rather.  
  
“Oh I imagined. But that was something quite different. That was a lot later.” His voice roughens on the last two words. “I was no longer a little boy.” He leans in and whispers in your ear, even though there’s no need for secrecy. “It was after that time I danced with you.”  
  
You know the dance he means. The one that ended in such disastrous humiliation. As trivial as it may seem now.  
  
“I dreamt about you.” He pauses and all your body is on alert. Is this a confession or a teasing tale he will laugh off? In either case, from his tone, you have a strong suspicion where this is leading and it makes you desperate to follow.  
  
“In my dream you beckoned me to come back to you to your room to clean up.  
  
You took off that dress and underneath…” He takes a breath and you shiver.  He was so young then, had he really thought of you like _that_? “Let me show you…”  
  
And just like that you find yourself garbed in a scarlet petticoat, far shorter than any you actually posses. You go to touch the fabric but your hand goes right through.  It’s an illusion. There’s just your skin.  
  
“And you had stockings the same color.”  
  
These pop into existence, but do not stretch as far up as the petticoat  
  
“With lace.”  
  
Your legs now look to be garbed in red stockings with lacy tops, but you can’t feel them, they’re only Loki’s projections.  
  
“So underneath you were like this, and then you caught hold of me,” he continues. “Told me you wanted to dance some more.”  His words are coming faster now, he’s not so much telling you but breathing them against your skin.  His forehead against your shoulder.  
   
“I tried to stop you…”  
  
“Why would you do that?” you say. Your heart is pounding and you can feel him breathing heavier. This is no one-time half-forgotten dream. It’s also no teasing yarn. It’s derailed the conversation but in a very interesting direction.  
  
“Because I had never been with anyone. Because you were so…”  
  
You decide to intervene with a kiss, it would be simpler than expecting any more from him when he so clearly wants.  You nudge him so you can see his face, reach his mouth, but then he says. “So you just held me and then…” So you stop yourself, if he’s going to give you a full blown detailed account then you’re not adversed, there will be plenty of time to act it out properly afterwards. “You took my hand and put it here.”  
   
He leads you though the action; lets you take his hand and he guides it, as though you were in control, to your thigh, where it goes right though the stockings and lays hot on your flesh.  
  
You both look at it.  
  
“Then what”? You prompt, waiting for him to say something salacious, draw you to him, or at least put his other hand somewhere. But he doesn’t move.  
  
“That’s it.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
”Well what?  I was very young.”  
  
Yes, he had been. It’s a shock - the young Loki you danced with in this role he’s describing  
  
 With or without a conclusion, his story has you highly aroused. Again.  Not to mention the scandalous way you are dressed, or rather not dressed, because it’s only an illusion.  
  
You are sure that the pendant is bright orange.  You try to stop thinking of it.  You try not to look at it because then he will know. You didn’t suspect that the stone could betray you.  But then it was his.  He is possibly both its maker and its master.  
  
“What about the cake?” you ask.  
  
“What _about_ the cake?”  
  
“I mean ” You look at him deeply, pause to make sure that he’s really looking at you and then say “There was no…Licking?” You watch the impact of the word, a perceptable dilaton of his pupils,“the cream off one another’s bodies?”  
  
At that he rallies himself and tries to look scandalized.  
  
“Is that what you fantasized?” He moves his hands to either side of you, caging you.    
  
“No.”  
  
“I don’t believe you.”  
  
“Well not at the time.”  
   
“Is it what you’re thinking now?” he whispers.  “You could order a quart of cream to be sent up from the kitchens right?  I doubt cook would so much as blush.”  
  
”I’m really not usually that decadent.”  
  
“Not usually?”  
  
“Can’t you conjure cream?” you suggest.  
  
He shakes his head.  
  
“I think it’s you I want to taste.”  
  
And taste he does. He’s upon you, inside and out. Its the end of the conversation. His tongue is otherwise occupied, alternately delving and caressing, teasing and rubbing. He is nothing if not thorough and has to hold you down firmly to the bed so much his ministrations make you want to buck and twist.You want to thread your hands in his hair too but are too afraid you’ll pull it so much his actions affect you. You grab the sheets instead. Then he sets about sucking relentlessly and doesn’t let up until you fall apart, soaking wet and moaning unabashedly.  
  
He keeps up the underwear illusion almost to the end. It only fades when you’re coming down and you see him looking at you like a hungry animal. You can’t return the favor, you can barely move. But you’re wrong to think you’re spent. As he penetrates you you shudder once more, still tingling all over. But then he stops stock still, looking at you incredulous.  When he moves again, he’s coming right away, overwhelmed, almost tearful and sighing with relief.  
  
  
  
  
  
You are almost asleep when speaks again.  
  
“And then you were avoiding me.” You don’t deny it. After the cake incident you had avoided him like the plague, mainly out of guilt.  
  
“Then you were with Fandral…”  
  
_And then there was Thor’s coronation,_ you think, _and everything after._ He doesn’t need to say. You don’t want him to have to.  
  
You snuggle in closer and finally allowing your hands to caress his hair.  
  
“But I never forgot.” he says. “And when the time came” His voice warms into a satisfied chuckle. ”You followed me of your own accord.”  
  
All that time.  And you’d had no idea, really.  Not even with the grief you felt when you thought he was dead the first time.  How were you dancing with him in the first place anyway? You don’t even remember. Had he asked you?  He must have. You don’t ask, its not important anymore. Instead you smooth his hair back and kiss his brow before settling at his side.  
  
“When can you come home for real?” Finally you’ve got it out.  
  
“But I am home,” he replies, wrapping his arm around you.  
  
“As long as I’m with you.”


	19. Our friends do not need to know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He makes a little sound, not a word, nor a sigh, just a tiny hum that tells you ‘yes’. You want to hear it again, coax as many non words from him as you can, because there was no pretense or calculation in it, just an honest expression of contentment. You so like getting under his skin. You want to live there.

“So… Who is he?” Asta has that smile of complicity and squeezes you by the arm.

You’d been staring out the window of the crowded tea shop into the square beyond, vaguely watching passers by and imagining Loki here with you, in the daytime. You haven’t seen him in the light of day since he left for Svartalfheim with Thor. How much you want to see him under the autumn sky. Her words fall like a bolt from the blue.

“What?”

“Who is he?” She repeats with a wink.

Beside her, Dagny laughs. “You’re so obvious. Stop being so mysterious. We want all the juicy details.”

“Most of the day you’re half in a dream if not actually asleep, and you don’t want to party anymore, like ever.” Asta starts nodding knowingly and your heart drops. ”I say she’s found someone.”

You don’t know what to say. How can you explain it without revealing too much and without lying to your friends?

“She’s never so coy. It must be serious.” Dagny says to Asta and they both move in on you slightly. You sense that several other groups of people around you are also surreptitiously listening in on the scene and feel yourself blushing.

“What’s his name?”

“Oh.” you say and don’t get any further. If you could only share their excitement and tell.

“Oh my. He hasn’t told her.” whispers Dagny so loud it’s no secret to anyone in the room.

“Will you both just stop. It’s like, new.” Well yes it is, but then it isn’t. Even saying that gives you a twinge of guilt. It would utterly rock their world if they knew.

“You seem completely knocked sideways by something. Worse than after the air-raid.”

“Why can’t you tell us about him?”

“Why haven’t we seen him yet?”

Why indeed. Keeping the secret is so hard and there’s the temptation to give them the shock they deserve after them needling you so. But you can’t, you have to protect him. You’ve got to say something though.

“I can’t tell you. He’s, a kind of a…” you drop your voice “ a secret agent.”

They both gasp so loud you must now be the center of attention of the whole room. Asta goes all serious-faced and looks impressed.

“That’s why he’s never around.” You continue, careful to avoid their gazes.

But then Dagny says, just as serious, and lightly touching your hand. “You’re sure. I mean it’s not just him saying that and that he’s married?”

“Oh don’t throw cold water.” says Asta.

“I just want to make sure she doesn’t get hurt. After all…” Dagny says, her eyes so full of concern that you feel terrible not to confide. “You’re one of the most trusting souls I know.”

“Now that’s true.” says Asta.

“How else could you have dated Fandral so long.” Dagny goes on.

“But he’s not like Fandral.”

“Remember that time you thought Fandral was combing Yggdrasil for a special gift for you?” Dagny says and Asta throws her a _look_ to make her stop, but she doesn’t notice. “And he _was_ combing Yggdrasil, except it was for-” Asta grabs her friend, halting Dagny mid-sentence. If she was concerned you were upset, her fears are unwarranted. The two of them are so funny and you love them and you only wish all the more you could tell them the truth.

Dagny smiles at you and, getting her second wind, and says “What I mean is _this_ is the woman who let _Loki_ braid her hair.”

You stop dead, not at the mention of his name but at the buried memory that surfaces and slaps you in the face, one that got skipped over last night - most conveniently - by both you and Loki. Something that hardly fits with his confessions of distant admiration.

If something shows on your face, perhaps the girls think it’s grief. You don’t reply. Perhaps you’ve already revealed yourself without a word. You can’t tell. You’re too busy wondering if you’ve been way too trusting of Loki and his spellbinding words.

 

 

 

 

_It had been an autumn day, bright like today, but warmer – just enough of an edge of cold to appreciate the spots of sun when they appeared, and revel in them._

_You had been sitting in the gardens braiding Sif’s hair when Thor appeared and admired your work. Sif in turn offered to braid his and he accepted, sitting down in front of her so the three of you were there in a row._

_Then Loki came by. Now, his hair wasn’t long enough to be braided, but instead, clearly keen to join in, he offered to braid yours._

_It was that time when you were rather distant with Loki, but you could hardly refuse and it might help to show there were no hard feelings about the cake incident._

_He was gentle, hardly pulling at all, but you could feel him weaving and braiding, doing something intricate. In fact, you were mostly concentrated on your own work. Plaits of plaits and ornate knots in Sif’s hair, something it was perfect for and she so rarely bothered with. You felt privileged. The sun made her brown locks shine copper where you’d twisted them._

_So you didn’t pay attention to what Loki was doing, and if it wasn’t for the need to keep your head straight, you’d almost have forgotten he was there. You were attaching Sif’s hair with pins and ties and she as doing the same for Thor. The basket of ties got passed to and fro, though Loki hardly asked for it at all._

_You and Sif finished braiding about the same time and Thor was so admirative of Sif’s hair and Sif so pleased with what she’d done for Thor that they dashed off together to look at their reflections in the water of a pond some way away, forgetting about you and Loki._

_“Its almost done,” Loki said. “It just needs a little more magic to hold it in place”._

_Magic? You could’t see it yet so you went to touch the side of your head where he’s finished - “No, no, don’t touch it.” he warned._

_“I’ll look at it properly in the mirror inside.” you said. So you started walking home, Loki silent beside you. It was only when you passed though a busier area that you noticed people staring. And what with Loki looking so smug about something, you supposed that they must be impressed._

_Then, coming down the street toward you you spotted Dagny. You couldn’t help but want to show off, even though you hadn’t seen the finished work yourself yet._

_“Look at my hair, Look. Loki did it.” And you turned around to show her._

_Dagny started screaming before you completed your turn and you whipped around to see her wide-eyed and open-mouthed. You raised a hand to your head._

_“No!” Her mouth mimed silently. but you’d already started to touch your hair. Among the braids something moved, something warm and smooth._

_“No.” Loki said. “Don’t do that. “You’ll wake them.”_

_“Them?”_

_Now you could feel your hair moving its own accord, every strand rising up and flexing. You looked around desperately. There was a wall behind you and, in the weak sun, you saw your shadow. It wasn’t as good as a refection, but it didn’t need to be. Your hair had taken on a life of it’s own and was writhing like so many snakes._

_You heard more screams and a passer-by dropped the barrow he was pushing. People all around were pointing and staring. A couple of small children just stood there giggling. And Dagny, who had recovered herself, grabbed Loki by_ his _hair._

_“You did that and she didn’t even know. How could you, you miserable wretch.” she shouted._

_“It was just to keep it in place, they hold each other’s tails it their mouths - much better than ribbons.” He glanced at you a little unsettled. “In theory…” Dagny gave his his hair a vicious wrench._

_“Change it back.”_

_“But.”_

_“You put it back now.”_

_Loki gave a simple hand wave as though shooing someone away and the shadow on the wall calmed instantly to your familiar, if disheveled, outline._

_“Wouldn’t you like me to do yours?” Loki asked Dagny, twisting in her hold. He could easily have overpowered her, or called for the guards to protect him, but no. He raised his hand at Dagny, grinning wickedly as she flinched. The moment she loosened her grip he was gone, diving through the crowd and into a side street. Dagny, her face livid, went to follow, but you knew she wouldn’t catch him, which was just as well. Who knows what stunt he might pull next?_

_So there you stood, doubtless a total mess, the crowd dispersing now the show was over. You put a hand to your head, reassured to feel just your usual hair, albeit in a terrible tangle._

_“Let me brush it out my lady.” A smooth voice came from behind you._

_You turned around and there was Fandral looking at you, smiling gently without mocking, apparently impressed at how you’d cooly you’d coped._

_“That’s most kind of you to offer Fandral, but I think I would prefer to comb my hair myself for a while, Thank you.”_

_“Then let me at least walk you home.”_

 

 

 

How convenient that last night Loki had omitted the episode from his story, and you, so ready to see the best in him, had simply forgotten it. Since when does a boy turn your hair to snakes to show he likes you? It makes you wonder how much of the rest of what he said was true?

The familiar sounds of cups and spoons and conversation brings you back to the present. Asta and Dagny are both quiet and you struggle to say something to fill the silence.

 

“Well Loki knows nothing about hair.” you say lightly before realizing you’ve used the present tense. You are really such a terrible liar. You try to distract them from your gaffe.

“He had good intentions I’m sure,” you conclude trying to hide your unease with a smile. Some at least had found it funny at the time.

You are saved from giving further explanations by your promise to the healers, but your friends resume their animated speculations even as you’re leaving.

 

 

 

 

It’s getting harder to keep the secret. What if one day you simply decided not to? What would happen to Loki? You are going to have to talk to him, properly, preferably before he can beguile you again.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a boom in the distance and a cloud of black smoke taints the sky in the direction of the armoury. When you arrive in the healing rooms your fears are confirmed.

Your mother is there, unharmed but anxious and there’s her assistant from yesterday bent double around a wound to the belly and cursing at high volume his own language.

It’s the most action there’s been here in weeks and he has full attention of the team.

“We can’t control it,” are the first of his words you understand, as four of the healers pull him straight and Madame Eir examines his injuries.

“She’s going to get us all killed.” He sighs. And you know he means your mother, who is still there, pacing uselessly.

Its unclear what they were trying to do, but someone or something took a large bite out of Hornace.

Your mother is visibly overwrought until Madame Eir reassures her that he will recover, then her demeanor returns to simply pinched and worried.

“I want to go home.” Hornace says, reassuringly lucid, once the healers have worked to dull the pain. He’s nothing to say to your mother and you never learn how the accident happened. She only leaves once he’s fallen asleep.

Clearly she has worse preoccupations than your love life, but that doesn’t reassure you at all.

What if the Aether can’t be tamed?

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s late as you climb the stairs to your rooms. There are a dozen heavy thoughts trailing after you from the day, but you’re also buoyed up with anticipation. You’re about to step into that other world where Loki is, where its just you and him.

What’s bad is that one of the heavy thoughts is the chance that Loki lied to you and it’s vying with a growing feeling that quite possibly, dreadfully, you don’t care. In that world on the other side of your door, what Loki says might as well be reality.

So tonight, will he draw you in? Make it all seem okay? Somehow make you believe that turning a girl’s hair into snakes is a sign of affection? The trouble is, you are starting to believe that it might be, as far as he’s concerned.

You pause before the door as a wave of apprehension? excitement? goes though you. But, once you’ve stepped through, you find there’s no one there.

You go round lighting the lamps one by one in each corner to try to chase away your unease, lighting the fire to chase away the chill.

If everything Loki said was one tall tale, it wouldn’t take away what you’ve shared. It wouldn’t take away what you feel either. You long for him like only he could bring the real light and warmth into this place, even though he brings so many complications too.

You sit on the settee and stare into the nothing of the night through the open curtains, wondering how you look from out there until you can bear it no longer and rise to close them. As you get up, Loki materializes right at your side. You don’t jump, but your heart begins to race. How long has he been there? He might have been waiting and watching you since you arrived. He might have just appeared from the other side of the universe. These things should matter, but you see how his face is drawn and when he takes you in his arms, you feel tension coursing through him. You cast your doubts aside and set about chasing his stress away.

“Come.” you say, as you take him by the hand. There is none of the usual undercurrent of foreplay when he looks at you, as though whatever upset him has taken him beyond that. You ask no questions. If his day has been anything like yours, then his tension is perfectly understandable.

You run a warm bath, while he undresses – slowly as though exhausted – without magic or flourish. The pendant, you notice, he does not remove. You slip into the water behind him and start to massage his back, working with slow, firm strokes until he gradually loosens up.

Neither of you say a word for a long time. There’s just the gentle sounds of the water. You’ve turned off the lights and simply lit a few candles. Finally, he relaxes into you fully. You can’t reach his back anymore and so just wrap your arms around him. He wriggles to get comfortable and you know you have only a short time before the water cools. So you savor the moments.

He makes a little sound, not a word, nor a sigh, just a tiny hum that tells you ‘yes’. You want to hear it again, coax as many non words from him as you can, because there was no pretense or calculation in it, just an honest expression of contentment. You so like getting under his skin. You want to live there.

 

 

 

 

As you’re drying yourselves he’s calm and it seems a perfect moment to venture a question.

“Remember when you did my hair?“ Instantly, you wish you hadn’t said it. To your ears it sounded like an accusation. He’s facing away from you and you hold your breath, dreading his reaction.

But then he turns and there’s that familiar smile - half mischief, half fascination, all promise - and says “Shall I do it again.”

“No way.” you say, laughing nervously, your relief audible, and when he moves toward you, you flip your wet towel at him.

“Shall I? ” He takes another teasing step closer.

You flip the towel again like a whip so he grabs one too. And then you’re duelling, chasing each other around the room, laughing and trying to reach the other without being touched. Here you are again, just the two of you and the outside world fades away.

He stops, spins around, and catches the end if your towel in a lightning movement. Before you’ve the reflex to let go, he hauls you in.

He pulls a mocking pose like he’s about to cast a spell, but then he relaxes and says, “No, of course not. You’re beautiful as you are.”

You throw your arms around him and he picks you up and carries you to the warmth of the fireside. It’s warm enough this close to the fire not to miss your clothes. Besides, the rug is soft under your back, and he is covering you with his body.

“I think you did cast a spell on me.” you tease, but you’re thinking of his ability to make you forget the worst of him.

“Never.”

“Never? What. You know that’s not true.”

He pouts at your words, but he’s smiling too.

“The orange light.” you prompt. And merely saying it sets you quivering, you’re sure he can hear it in your voice. Did you make it sound like a demand. What if it was? What if he did that again? You swallow hard.

He gives you a wicked grin.

“That was no spell.”

You look at him sceptically.

“Well only a little one, enough to make pretty light, that’s all.” He’s playing with you, surely.

“And?” Your breathing’s gone heavy and your voice rough, You can’t help it and he must hear that. You can feel the pendant resting against your skin where he’s laying on you. Just thinking about that night has you jittery, hot and the best of the way to orgasm from the mere idea.

“In fact you might say it was more of a trick than a spell.” His smile softens, and he makes the word ‘trick’ sound like something intimate. “I just made some colored light. The rest, my dear, was you.”

You don’t know what to say, all this time you’d thought he’d controlled you, when all he’d done was ignite something that was already there. It takes a moment for your mind to catch up to it, but your body is already there. You want him to kiss you right now and much more besides, but he looks at you wistfully and adds.

“It worked far better than I could ever have expected.”

“But I thought…” you protest.

“You thought.” he repeats. “That I could and that I would.” Indeed you are sure of both. He swallows. “Your faith is heart-stopping.”

His eyes haven’t left yours a second throughout the exchange, but cloud a second with something you can’t name. “If someone cast a spell that night, it certainly wasn’t me.”

“I can’t do magic” you say.

“You’d be surprised.” he says and wets his lips.

From there everything happens very quickly. You are so close together and both so very ready. He touches his tongue to your nipple and you shriek and arch into him until he pushes you down. The floor is hard under the rug you welcome it and his own hardness.

He slides into you and you shudder with pleasure and grip him and moan until he does the same, holding you tightly and letting his head fall to your shoulder as you both find release a few instants later and he lays breathing you in long and hard.

Out of the corner of your eye you spy the pendant glowing orange, where it dangles, though whether it’s colored by your passion or just the firelight you wouldn’t know.

Silently you vow that as long as he keeps returning to you like this you wont ask him where he goes.


	20. Let me steal this moment from you now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki reveals another of his talents.

He’s gone again and you’re none the wiser as to where.

You roll into the warm space he left and doze. _Imagine a safe place_ he’d said. So this is what you have – a nest, an invisible print on your skin, and a warm hole left in the bed. Every night when he comes to you you forget the strangeness of the situation with the comfort of his nearness.

There’s a faint tapping. Far off to start with, then louder, like someone walking closer. By the time you are awake enough to recognize knocking on your door it’s become an agitated banging accompanied by yells.

“Open up. I know you’re in there.” comes a woman’s voice.

You sigh, slip out of bed and pad around barefoot looking for your robe as there comes another bang. You pull open the door and there’s Sif in full battledress, a quarterstaff in her hand.

“Too early.” you groan. Now Sif is someone you’ve known since forever but you’d hardly say you were close, certainly not close enough for her to knock you up first thing in the morning to go and spar. And anyway, after your performance the last time, you hardly think you’d make her a worthy adversary.

“He’s here isn’t he?” Sif looks murderous and you’re glad she’s not carrying anything sharp.

“Who?”

But your word is spoken to empty space as she’s already pushed past you into your rooms. “What?” What presumption. This is your home. How dare she. You follow in her wake. Then you see what she sees.

There’s towels strewn around the floor, your clothes from yesterday in a heap, and the bed looks like someone had a fight in it. The door to the bathroom stands open displaying the bath still full and a couple of burnt-down candles.

She looks at you skeptically, paying particular attention to your collarbone where you know there’s a bruise, even though it was from the training the other day and quite possibly her work.

Who is she looking for? If it’s Loki then he’s long gone, but there’s no reason she’d be searching for Loki. None except a prickle of your conscience and the fear that there’s more to his secret than he’s let on.

Turning from you, she creeps toward the closet.

“What? Sif! Stop!”

With the point of her staff she pushes back the row of hanging dresses. She runs it all the way along, setting them swinging while you stand there speechless, your outrage unheeded. Then she turns with a huff and paces back toward the bed. The bedclothes are all bunched where you pushed them aside. Sif takes her staff and gives the bundle a less-than-gentle poke.

To your shock and her satisfaction there’s a yelp from within. “Got you.” breathes Sif.

What is he doing still here? He was gone. The idiot. Why is he back if he doesn’t want to get caught?

“Well what have we here? Fandr-”

She flips the sheets revealing a head of dark hair and stops short in shock, missing the wince you make.

Later you will remember guiltily that in that precise moment, as well as the terror at discovery, you also felt an intense sense of relief - that the secret was out, that you didn’t have to pretend anymore.

But right now, the figure rises, throwing back the sheets flamboyantly and it’s your turn for a shock. It’s not Loki.

It’s a woman, with raven hair, a red-painted mouth and large bare breasts she has no shame in displaying.

Sif has no shame in staring either, though it’s probably out of surprise. For a moment no one says anything and the woman stretches luxuriantly and smiles at you both.

“Why don’t you try the kitchens.” The woman says, flicking back her long black locks. “Perhaps he was looking for something sweet.” The last word drips honey and ice and Sif looks on in shock a second longer, before turning without a word and tearing out of the room. The bed’s occupant grins wickedly.

“Ooooh! someone’s in trouble.” She breaks into laughter. Familiar laughter. There’s only one way she could have gotten there.

“Loki!?” It wasn’t the voice that tipped you off or even the words but the whole set up, the trick and it’s recklessness. Now you search the woman’s face for his features, morphed into someone else, but still strangely recognizable. And there they are, when you know what to look for. And there, around her neck, is the pendant, it’s color a smoky violet but it’s form unmistakable. You’re staring, incredulous.

“What?” Loki looks at you innocently, her larger eyes blinking slowly and fuller mouth pouting slightly. “I saw her heading up here and thought I’d have little fun.”

She climbs out of bed and strolls towards the closet, considerably shorter in stature, with a figure that defies belief - breasts very full, a tiny waist and broad, curvaceous hips.

“Loki, what is this? I mean, who are you?”

“What this?” she makes a grandiose gesture to her body, turning to display delicate shoulders, rose-pink nipples. “Why, this is me.”

“You’re not impersonating some… friend?”

“Oh no. I’m not imitating anyone.”

You struggle with the idea a moment. Loki is also a woman? Or can pretend to be a woman? You find those curves rather unrealistic to tell the truth. They look more like how a man might idealize a woman than any true woman you’ve ever seen. You get a picture of adolescent Loki dreaming this up, sketching out this fantasy on the corner of a spell book.

“You mean you designed yourself a female self, you sat down and drew a woman-“

“I not drawn. This is just the way I am.”

Loki’s clearly very proud of this form and not remotely shy – with a deliberate swing of the hips as she approaches your clothes. Unlike Loki’s male form, her body is unmarred by scars, it’s perfect, her skin has the same glowing paleness and her hair is the same bottomless black.

She touches one of your dresses and it appears instantly on her body.

It doesn’t fit in quite the same way as it does on you. Of course not. It’s obviously tighter around the bust, and there is more of her shoulders on view. She’s changed it, by magic.

“Hummm.” She looks at herself in the mirror, then moves on to the next outfit, a pale blue one, one you always found a bit too modest and serious. She performs a transformation so there’s more cleavage visible and a slit up the leg to the upper thigh.

“I remember the first time when Thor went into battle.” Loki says as she admires her work. “I was left behind.” You watch her expression, - scheming - the same and somehow not.

“So I chose to ‘welcome home the warriors’ instead. Like this.” She points to herself, now in gold and russet, skin paled to translucent by the strength of the color.

At least five of them the first night.” She gives a little shudder of delight that makes her breasts jiggle, and adds. “Something you’d know a bit about.”

Struggling to maintain your composure and treat this new development like something quite reasonable and normal, you protest. “Oh no, never more than one at a time, that’s a waste of men.”

“Warriors.” Loki corrects. Letting the word hang there. She’s grinning again, teeth white and dangerous against the red of those lips.

Loki changes into a green dress now, one you don’t know, so you guess it’s one of her own called from some magical wardrobe. The neckline is a huge V in front, diving between those ample breasts and mirrored by one at the back that almost reaches the cleavage there too.

“Mother and Father found out of course.” she continues. “I made sure of it.” Now she’s smiling smugly. “And strangely enough, the next time, I was allowed to go and fight alongside Thor.” She examines her nails, which are polished a black so shiny she’s probably admiring herself in them.

“But it’s still of great use to me to be able to change. For a start, it’s far easier to find company for the night like this.” She smirks and you don’t know if its complicity or flirtation. Both perhaps. “In fact,” she says slowly, looking you full in the eye as though to be sure she’s understood. “I find a lover every time I take this form.”

That expression you’d know whatever form Loki chose to take. You don’t know if what you feel is fear or attraction. To push it home she adds.

“I’ve no objection to ‘non-warriors’.”

It’s that moment that the penny drops about ‘warriors’ rather than men. Could she possibly mean Sif? That Sif and Loki…, no Sif and Lady Loki…? And without Sif even knowing who she was.

Sif’s reaction just now takes on a whole new meaning and you feel a ripple of fear – or is that jealousy? – run though you.

And Sif ran out of here thinking what about you and this woman?!

Still, those huge green eyes are waiting and watching. You must be the picture of confusion.

“I could turn you into a man, you know”

“What! No!”

“Don’t you want to know what it’s like?” She’s taken a step closer.“You might enjoy it.” And she leers at you as though she most certainly would. Your stomach drops.

“No. Please.” The idea of you both being other people is too much.

“You’d prefer if we both stayed the way we are now?” her eyes flash.

“Change back.” you insist. “I want the real you.”

“But this is the real me.” She reaches out to you. “Does this form make you uncomfortable.” Well there it is. It’s not something you’ve given much thought to. It’s not as if there were opportunities. Unless you count that one time Sif ‘mistook you for Thor’…

“You mean you’ve never.” She stops before she touches you as though you might startle, as though you were something infinitely desirable but sacred. “Oh but what fun we could have…”

“But Loki. I want the real real you.”

There’s a flicker of something across her face. Disappointment? Even though this is Loki, you don’t know these morphed features well enough to read their expression. But then her eyes crinkle and her face breaks into a mischievous smile you recognize very well. “You know what you like then.” While you’re beginning to have some doubts in that area, her implication is as lewd and as clear as if she’d made a gesture to go with it.

“But, any time you want to try…” she gives you a wink and in an instant changes back to the form you know, body drawing out, flattening, filling out differently. He regains his usual height, his usual garb and all at once radiates a different sort of power. You have a moment of regret for his other self, the full mouth and large eyes, the rounder everything, and hope after all that you haven’t seen the last of her…

He draws you into his arms right away and the familiarity is a balm, but you’re still on edge from the ruse, from the conversation,from the things you didn’t say or dare. Your heart is hammering already and he’s hardly touched you. He slides a crafty hand inside your robe and you melt into him. When he feels how wet you already, he he challenges, “So you do like me in my other form.” He starts to work you with his hand and it becomes impossible to think of a clever answer if there ever was one.

“I thought so.” He delves deeper and you cling to him. All of a sudden he stops and pulls away his hand. He holds it up so you can see it glistening. “What did that? I wonder.” He licks a moist finger and raises an eyebrow as you squirm. “Which one of my wicked ideas took root?” He feigns idle curiosity, returns his hand to its work and with the crook of a finger sets you writhing against him.

“Just. You.” You force out, breathless despite your immobility.

You expect him to disrobe you, to take you to bed, but no, he continues relentlessly with his fingers until you are begging. It’s not just him, though. It’s everything he’s been saying and doing. The unrealized possibilities and your imagination.

“You are enticingly curious if not courageous.” He breathes

You’re frustratingly aroused and unsettled and mad at yourself and confused and mad at Sif or jealous or afraid of her, or of yourself. You don’t know. You want to drown it all out in him; just want him to take you and let you forget the rest.

Outside, a bell is ringing. The day has started without you but in this instant you don’t care, if only Loki would… crush your body to the bed with is own. But he continues his slow massaging accompanied with deep kissing till he has you past a point where there is only want left and you cease caring how you get there. You just want him to make you come. He brushes off your attempts to please him. He does not relent, just keeps playing at a steady, frustrating rhythm and it’s driving you crazy, the fire mounting unstoppably but so so slowly, and more powerfully for it. Just as you give up waiting for him to take you to bed, he pulls your robe fully open cups your breasts with his hands while he kisses you. The one hand is wet with you and he slides his thumb over and over the nipple while thrusting his tongue down your throat. You can feel him hard under his clothes, but then you’re overcome by the culmination of your desire. You can’t stop bucking and shaking and crying. He just keeps on playing until you come apart in his arms. When finally you are silent and still and weak and spent he lays you on the bed, grinning cheekily and, for the first time since his return, vanishes taking nothing for himself.


	21. Rest your head close to my heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bring on the angst!

Hornace is sitting bundled in a reclining chair on the balcony.  He’s glum and clearly uncomfortable, but far better already than you ever could have hoped. His rapid recovery seems driven by his anger, but he’s still too weak to travel. You’re charged with bringing him in and changing his dressings.

“They should get rid of it before it swallows Asgard whole.” he mutters. He’s not really talking to you, more to the view of the city. “They don’t know what they’re doing. Not even the King.“ His voice falls to a whisper. ”Impetuous, excitable, foolhardy…” 

He allows himself to be lifted and wheeled inside. 

None of his words seem to describe the stoic and proud Odin. Stubborn perhaps, but ‘foolhardy’? Hornace’s mood is soured by his injury, of course, and Odin is not his King. Might that make him more objective ?” You missed most of the explanations of their experiments that day after Odin’s speech, but you know what they’re trying to do - protect the realm.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” He huffs. He must see your consternation and turns his head to look at the wall, away from you and the task you have to do, away from the wound. “He’s the only one who can call a halt.”

Hornace tenses himself but doesn’t flinch as you let the warm water flow over his skin. You feel proud you’ve got the temperature perfect. Here in the healing rooms you pour yourself into your tasks like nothing else existed.

Rather than recoiling from the damaged flesh, you find yourself admiring the precision of healer’s work there. Dwarves are so much smaller, how difficult it must have been knitting the skin together there.

“Beautiful.” You say. An inappropriate word, but he doesn’t seem offended, just raises a shaggy eyebrow and hazards a glance. “I mean… it’s healing beautifully.”

“So much the better, the sooner I’ll be out of here.”

 

 

 

 

Your confusion resurfaces as soon as you leave the healing rooms. So you walk home alone along the battlements with only the rising wind for company. Soon it will be too cold for this route to be comfortable, but for now it’s fine. You welcome the wind in your hair and clothes. You try to let it blow away your cares. 

You wonder who Loki will be tonight. 

Your wonder about Loki and Sif, and Fandral and Sif and Thor…and Sif and you and what she can possibly be thinking of you now.

As if on cue, you spot them, Fandral and Sif, coming the other way along the narrow walkway. They must see you about the same time. You keep your pace steady.

When you draw close enough, you see that Fandral is carrying both their swords, so they can walk closer together. How cute. You try not to show you’ve noticed, try not to stare. Whatever the issue was this morning they’ve resolved it. You’re getting ready to greet them politely when Sif drops her hand from her lover’s waist and bounds ahead to meet you.

She’s not confrontational, just awkward, which is far worse.

“I would like to apologize, for my intrusion.” She bows her head. She’s as uncomfortable as you are. A thousand unvoiced questions hang in the air.

“A simple mistake. No need to worry.” you reply. It’s easier to say while she’s not looking at you. 

Fandral catches up and Sif raises her head, catching your eye a second. There’s the tiniest something there, as though she thinks she understands you and seeks that spark of understanding in return.

You don’t know how to react. You don’t try to process it. It’s at such cross purposes to your true situation. You stand there at a loss and the moment passes.

“Look.” says Fandral, oblivious, breaking the silence.

He’s pointing toward the tournament field where there’s a group of figures, your mother and Odin among them. You see that Odin is holding Gungnir and, mounted on the end of the famous staff, is something glowing a familiar red. Odin points it into the field where there is still some fallen masonry waiting to be cleared.

There’s a shot of light and the block of stonework simply explodes into nothing leaving a puffy cloud of dust. The people applaud and their cheers are carried to you on the wind. You look at the place the stonework had been as the dust clears.  Hornace’s worries were unfounded it seems, if the dark elves return now they run the risk of annihilation by their own magic.

But then you notice something dark in the dust.  Something falling away, sucking the dust somewhere, like a mouth in the ground.  A growing mouth.

The figures in the party draw back and move closer together.

Then Odin steps forward and you have your heart in your mouth ‘foolhardy and impetuous’? What has become of him since Frigga passed?  But he has Gungnir, now free of the red appendage, and he swings it above his head until its moving so fast you can hardly see it and the movement lets off a hum.  The rest of the group retreat still further. 

Odin lets out a great cry and the swirling air above his head falls toward the advancing abyss, just yards from his feet.

The hum stops and the enchantment lands like a net over the hole, straining as it’s pulled from below. Nothing moves, the hole neither growing nor retreating. The magic holds. 

There’s a collective sigh of relief but no clapping this time. Sif and Fandral are still staring incredulous at the scene. You quietly slip away.

 

 

 

 

Loki’s coat is slung over the back of one of your chairs, claiming territory. That soft leather coat, long and so familiar, is very much his, not hers.

The man himself is standing facing the window, hands linked behind his back. Hearing you, he turns revealing an expression as hard and cold as a stone wall. Something has happened. He’s strained, tired, and angry. Could it be about his father’s actions

Thiere’s no trace of the honest ardor of yesterday nor the mischievous grin of this morning. He looks full on at you with a cold fire in his eyes and it hits you. It’s you he’s angry with.

“Darling” he says, without an ounce of affection. “When I said ‘tell no one’ I meant no one.”

“What?” you take a step closer and he rounds on you defensively, ready to spring, and not in a good way.

“I say to ‘tell no one’” he repeats slower and harsher, “and you spill every Intimate detail to the most vicious gossip in Asgard.”

“What? Who?” What can you have said or done to bring about this change? In a rush you think through every word of every conversation, you’ve had… Sif, Fandral, Hornace, the healers, the girls…

It’s true that people around you have noticed something different about you. How could they not. Your mother prised a few details from you, Fandral understood there was something, and as for Asta and Dagny, they are also very close to knowing. but you never let slip the truth to any of them. And not one of them could be called the ‘most vicious gossip in Asgard’.

Asta might be excitable, but she’s sweet, never nasty. You guess she was the closest, if she thought Loki was once your ‘sweetheart’.

“But my friend she…”

“Told everything to anyone who would listen. Details about my ‘stamina’, about how many times…” he spits. “But worst of all that I’m alive and in Asgard.”

“What, I never.”

“Fortunately, it went no further than the stables,”

What? Now you’re lost, you don’t know anyone who works in the stables, at least not personally.

“The damage control we’ve had to do.” He sighs. “All because you had to confide in your ‘faithful steed.’”

But…What? Not Asta but…

“Nara?!”

Of course. The first day out on the moors you had indeed told Nara., you had to tell someone about Loki’s return, you’d been bursting with it and, no, you hadn’t spared any details.

“But I thought it was safe. What harm could possible come…I didn’t think she could. She’s only…” You stop yourself but its too late.

“Only a horse. just a dumb animal, a stupid nag,?” his voice mounts. If he was angry before, that was nothing compared with this. You tell yourself not to be scared. It’s not fair. You didn’t know you could do harm this way, you just hope he can understand that.

“I’m supposed to be dead. Asgard is full of those who betrayed me, if ever the truth was known…”

“What?” You don’t quite reach his volume and that one brave word is weak and wavering but at least it’s there.

You didn’t know he could be this way. He’s livid, but more than that he’s hurt and you don’t know why. You reach for him. You want to coax out the other Loki – the one who teased you about telling on him when you were little – but he dodges and steps away.

“I’d have to leave again.” He says after a moment, “and there’s still so much I’ve got to do.” He starts pacing.

“I’m sorry”. You try. That stops him in his tracks and he looks back at you confused.

“We’re lucky her reputation is so bad. Most didn’t believe her.” He sounds calmer, like he’s trying to reign in his anger, but he won’t meet your eyes. “Perhaps she is ‘just a horse’ to you but she’s a skilled rumormonger who’ll speak ill of anyone to get a laugh or get you on her side. I would truly admire the disorder she makes if it weren’t solely out of hate. She was just waiting for a way to get to me again.”

“Again?” You think you know.

“You couldn’t know.” He sinks down on the bed, resting his head on one hand, hiding his face.

“Sleipnir?”

“ You do know then.” He drops his hand and you see his eyes shining.

“Fandral said-”

“Fandral.” He roars, jumping to his feet.

“He said that Thor. “

“Thor! And what other gems did Thor share about my life.”

“I don’t know.” You’ve got to calm things, boy is he volatile. “It was when you were dead. One evening they were telling stories. I got too upset to stay and listen.”

He softens slightly at that, and starts pacing again.

“She would say that I’d never be a true horse. They were all saying it.” He mutters in a lower, hateful tone. “But I would have. I would have stayed. If he’d loved me back.” You keep quiet, in part from shock, in part because you know it’s the best way to get him to go on.

“She never let me forget.” He sighs. “Jealousy. Pure and simple.”

“And she’d call Sleipnir ‘the clumsy spider’. Behind my back of course, but so I’d know. She and the others. Always little remarks about the ‘L.E.G.S.’ She got them all saying it. Hilarious.” he adds without humor.

“Of course that changed when he was grown.” And at last you see the hint of a smile.

“But I would have stayed. If he’d only come back.” You are trying to picture it all and keep down your panic about it being true, while he’s having a pity party about slights from a bunch of horses and unrequited love for some unnamed stallion. The ridiculousness of it hits you, but you can’t laugh. You step over to him and put your arms around him, trying to break him out of it. He doesn’t resist.

“Well you’re not a horse Loki, you’re a man, this is you.” you stroke your hand down the length of his arm. He doesn’t push you away so you take his face in your hands and make him look at you. “I love you as you are, the real you.” He doesn’t respond. Not even the rawness of your confession shakes him out of it.

Then it hits you. Loki already has a child! A secret child and you wonder, if Loki can turn into a horse can Sleipnir transform himself into a person? You can’t get your head around it. Loki has done crazy and, some say, terrible things, things you have pushed these to the back of your mind, incompatible as they are with what you have always known of him. But the hints you had of his doings were of violence and deluded world conquest, not of passing time as a pregnant mare, quietly bearing and rearing a foal in the prairies of Asgard while bickering with other horses.

It’s near impossible to picture him as he is here, elegant, poised, sad, but beautiful and to imagine him as a horse. If he hadn’t just told you, if you didn’t know his prowess at transformation, if the story hadn’t come from Thor, if it wasn’t for the desolate look on this face…You would think it was a prank.

“It was a prank that went awry, terribly awry.” He looks away from you and out into the gathering night. “But I’d do it again.”

“Loki, do you want more children?”

He stiffens and you curse yourself. You hadn’t meant it like that, through transformation and magic. What had you meant? it shrieks of a demand for commitment – You’ve only made things worse again. What if the only being that Loki ever had commitment to was this uncaring stallion.

I should have known.” he says slinging himself on the bed.

What should he have known? Known about you? You said you loved him and he ignored it. You don’t know if you’re forgiven. How much of his reaction is your betrayal and how much is his memories?

His face is turned resolutely away from you and into the pillow. He’s fully dressed, a thick layer of leather between you and him, protecting him from any comfort you would bring. You don’t feel great about bringing comfort. It’s you that hurt him, what matter that it was an accident. At least he stayed, when he could have simply disappeared the same way he first brought you here, He’s deep inside himself but at least he’s here with you.

You hug him from behind while he lies there stiffly, never softening into sleep.

Finally, you doze yourself, your cheek against the leather. You only wake when you hear the door close and realize he’s gone. He chose to take the door though. He wanted you to know. He’s walked out angry and with no resolution… You can’t let that happen.

In a second you’re out the door.

He’s moving fast, but not running and you’re chasing, barefoot and silent. It’s déjà vu, like in the gardens before the attack, or in the palace that first night. He could magic himself away, you’re sure of it. If he doesn’t its that he wants you to follow him, or else he’s too distraught. You don’t understand. It seems like the problem was solved, no one believed Nara, so where is the problem. Why is he running away?

You chase him though the corridors of the palace, wondering when you will meet someone or when he will disappear. You try not to lose sight of that flash of green, but you round a corner and find yourself alone. When he’s run from you before he always wanted you to follow. This time you’re not so sure.

There’s no sign of him. You’re miles from your rooms. The night has never seemed so silent.

Then out of the gloom a figure breaks away from the darkness, your heart leaps as the it moves silently toward you, slowly, so slowly almost stumbling.

“Loki?”

There’s no answer. The figure advances.

 

 

 

 

 


	22. The name of the game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's up with the Allfather?

It’s not Loki - the whole stature is wrong, Whoever this is though, you just called out Loki’s name to them.

The figure doesn’t react, just continues to advance. You want to suck back the name, deny it, but it’s too late. You stay where you are. You’ve got to see who it is you just so foolishly told.

The figure has the form of a man, but seems somehow misshapen, as though great crags grow from his shoulders, it just looks wrong for a person. That’s why it’s even more of a shock when he gets close enough to recognize.

Odin! Lined face heavy with exhaustion, hair an unruly mess, barefoot and wearing a long gold-threaded sleeping gown.

Despite the king’s strange appearance, relief washes over you. He’s the one other person who must already know about Loki. The secret is safe. He doesn’t, however, know that you know, or at least he didn’t until now. You fall to your knees and bow, dread slowly filling you from the cold floor beneath.

You get your respectful greeting ready as he approaches laboriously,

“Your majesty….” He makes no acknowledgement. He doesn’t even stop. It’s like he hasn’t seen you. He’s moving so incredibly slowly though that you easily have time to get out of the way before he trips over you. As he goes past you see what is so strange about his shoulders. There’s a raven perched on each one.

“Hugin and Munin, they’re back!”

He still doesn’t react, doesn’t falter or look at you. Later you couldn’t even say if his eye was open.

There’s no sound in the corridor but for your hammering heart and Odin’s shuffling steps. Did he not see you, or pretend not to? Did you just get away with it?

Where is Loki?

The only movement is the shimmer of Odin’s nightgown as the moonlight catches the golden parts.

You return to your room. It’s the quietest part of the of night and but there’s no sleep to be found. Will Loki return? Against the unfamiliar feeling of being alone it all crowds in on you, the argument, the secret, the lies you’ve told to all around you, and what could possibly be waiting for you tomorrow. Telling Nara was one thing, but Odin, you know well what he’s capable of.

 

 

 

 

The day breaks and there’s no royal summons, no questioning, nothing.

You go about your business as normally as you can. Except it’s not normal. It’s eerily quiet. Perhaps Odin really was sleepwalking. You know better than to relax, but later you hear that the King isn’t even in Asgard, but making a diplomatic visit to Svartalfheim. Methodically you go through your day, not thinking about any of it but fearful of any of the royal guard that you see.

Loki doesn’t come back that night, leaving you with a mix of worry and guilty relief What is he doing? Is he in Svartalfheim with Odin? Loki on an official visit? Surely not…unless. Perhaps they know the truth on Svartalfheim. Perhaps some hail him like a hero even? Like his beautiful elf… No you don’t want to go there

But then why play dead before his own people. His own brother!

Thor!

If ever Asgard needed him its now. But what could he do? You can imagine the ensuing conflict with his father should Thor try to tell Odin to leave the Aether alone.

And if Thor was here, would you tell him the truth? It’s starting to feel like you’ve got to tell someone. But every time it crosses your mind you see Loki’s anger at you, his hurt. You cannot.

After the whirlwind that has been, this lull is a shock to the system. Despite the pang of loneliness, you can never be sure you are alone. If Loki’s not on a mission then is he watching you? You’re back to imagining him around every corner and waiting for you each time you go home.

It feels too quiet. Like a calm before a storm. There’s no more crazy experiments, no more obscure injuries. The girls slip the odd question about your mystery man, your mother too, but you manage to deflect them. How long can you keep them at bay? In a world where Loki was neither felon nor hero you suppose you and he being together would have been applauded, even considered normal.

Nothing about Loki or this situation is normal. But nothing will stop you wanting him back.

The first night alone you told yourself its was a chance to think clearly. By the third you are downright worried, above all because Odin is back but there’s still no sign of Loki. Is he angry with you? Doubtlessly. But if he wanted you to chase him in the corridors, why disappear. He wanted to be caught and comforted. Right? Or did you misread him?

What if he never returns, must you keep the secret forever?

 

 

 

 

On the steps up to the palace you can see your father and it fills you with joy. With him, everything is simple. He won’t ask you, won’t badger you about your ‘budding relationship’ and if there was anyone you could safely confide in you know it would be him. If there is someone who finally you could tell… The sky seems to brighten at that very second. He sees you and though he’s too far off to see his expression you are sure he’s smiling. You start running.

But, as you get nearer you see he is not alone. He’s with Odin who was leaning over some papers on a folding table beside them. Its a pile of plans of some sort, but now both men are focused on you. You don’t falter in your course and draw to halt before them. The king looks hale and hearty and not in the slightest like the crumpled specter of the other night. There’s no knowing look either when he meets your gaze. It’s as though you dreamt the whole episode of the other night. You hope your inquietude isn’t visible. Before you can as much as greet them, Odin speaks.

“Ah, just what we need. A deciding opinion.”

Your eyes fall on the plans. They are all pictures of Frigga.

“This is where her statue will stand, the question is, in which direction should she face, toward the morning or the evening sun.”

You feel sure Papa has already made a suggestion but you can’t guess at what and Odin probably wants the opposite. You only hope, whatever you say will meet with approuval. Compared with the type of questioning you expected it’s a picnic. You simply need to answer the most honestly you can and from your heart. You look at the position, the light in the sky, the pictures. Then it comes to you.

“Both. You say with some satisfaction.” And you watch as a smile breaks over your father’s face.

“She should face the city and the people so her features might be caught by both the morning and evening sun in turn.”

“A wise choice” says Odin, actively appearing to contemplate it. “From a clever girl.”

“Thank you your majesty.”

“We should play again at Midgardian War.” It’s not a question and the easy escape you’d expected shrinks to a pinprick.“Tonight.” Odin eye fixes on you. It’s the look you’d been dreading. Like he knows something, everything even. You are used to people looking at you, with envy or desire or even amusement, but he’s unreadable. This invitation is not as harmless as it might appear. You hope against hope you won’t be left alone with him.

“And then I will play the winner.” Papa puts in, with a chuckle and you release the breath you’d been holding. He will be there. If the worst comes to the worst, and you have to confess then you will have ally. Papa will make it alright.

You don’t have long to think about it because the rendezvous is only a few hours away. You wish you could get your father alone before then, somehow warn him about what might transpire, but he’s suddenly surrounded by suppliers and clerks here to set up the work site. If only you had gone to him sooner.

 

 

 

 

“Svartalfheim was once beautiful. Well…perhaps not to our eyes, but it has been burnt by the light itself.”

You’re seated in a cosy salon in the royal quarters under the warm light of lamps and a fire.

“But what if there were trees, Sire.”You think of the absolute blackness you can find in the depths of a forest. That lingering memory of losing yourself there in a blackness so thick… ”Wouldn’t they stop the light?” He looks at you as though this was the naive imaginings of a child, endearing but misguided. Then he stops.

“A charming idea, but first we would need to stop the ground itself from shifting. It moves constantly, the surface is little but a desert.

“And the elves…” you father puts in “It would be prudent to consider if they’d consider such help as ’meddling’”.

“We will, nonetheless be establishing a settlement there.”

He has made no mention of your encounter in the corridor, and you conclude, finally, that he did not notice you. You would be relieved, but the vast difference between that Odin and this one puts you on edge. There’s something forced about his smile. You ignore it and so, you think, does Papa. Judging by the state you saw Odin in that night, he perhaps risks to fall again into the sleep, but is fighting it every step of the way. If that happened how would Asgard cope. Would Loki come out of hiding? Would Thor return?

“What news of Thor?” you ask, conscious you have been quiet too long.

Now, you know very well that they’d had their differences, all Asgard knew. But you just wanted to know, if someone could help the situation…

“On Midgard, with Jane.” Her name, Odin uses her name, not ‘that mortal woman’, hissed with distaste. No he said ‘Jane’, her little name, like Thor would. Just that is enough to tell you that he has accepted the alien woman. But then he looks grave and adds. “Tis a shame she won’t live.”

Odin stares into the fire and though in that moment you see the warmth in the light falling on his weathered features, it reveals see a great sorrow.

“But who of us can boast eternity?” he concludes.

Although the words are wise they are stark and the anguish in his face easily readable. You know he is thinking of Frigga, perhaps of himself or even…

It’s at that moment a doubt starts to tug at you. Does Odin really know Loki is alive? What if Loki never told him? What if you are the only one. Loki never mentioned being on ’a mission for _Asgard_ ’ not ‘ a mission for Odin’ but you always thought his father knew. If not, is Loki still a fugitive. Odin imprisoned Loki, it makes sense that Loki wouldn’t trust him. Hence the secrecy. But if Odin doesn’t know Loki survived, then does he know Malekith survived.

You try to calm your panic, Odin _must_ know, why else would he be preparing new weapons with such zeal. He knows. He must know. But why not then tell Thor? You school your features before your confusion can show. Fortunately Odin is momentarily distracted by the arrival of the chess board.

As he thanks the attendants, you watch the lines and furrows of his face, shadowed into mountains and valleys in the firelight. You can look on him for a few moments without the feeling that he’s scrutinizing you, either with his remaining eye or the missing one, but you’re aware of Papa watching you as you do so.

The chess game is a disaster, an unmitigated one. The only good thing you can say about it is that it’s over quickly. Though your hand is steady, you are shaking inside and you stumble through the opening moves like a beginner leaving your king open to attack and easy to trap. You try to compensate but you’ve lost concentration and your actions on the board are desperate and obvious. The best you can do is show nothing on your face. Papa’s questioning gaze on you a further source of stress. You wish you’d had time to talk to him. By keeping the secret you could be risking all Asgard, but by telling you would be betraying Loki.

Odin held diplomacy meeting with the elves didn’t he? Things must be alright.

You can act like normal but you can’t play like normal and the mere thought that you’re pretending spirals you further. You feel sympathy for Odin, and not. The imprisoned Loki! No wonder if Loki won’t trust him.

So did Odin meet the elves who are against Malekith, like Loki’s elf? Odin must know about Loki. So why the secrecy?

But what id he doesn’t, what if he was duped by Malkith’s allies? And where was Loki?

Where is Loki?

Checkmate.

As promised your father takes your place, you try to follow his elegant moves as it’s clearly now your family who has the upper hand. But the real game is so much bigger. Why did Odin wish to play you at all? If Papa wasn’t here would he call you on the events of the other night. Papa is victorious and so both he and Odin can celebrate a win. If you have anything to celebrate it’s that Odin has said nothing about Loki. But the relief is not enough, you still carry the secret. And for what? Loki is avoiding you.

 

 

 

 

The next day, you dine with your parents. Your mother seems happy despite the lack of progress in the armory. She’s unusually quiet and, except for a few complicit smiles, makes no allusions to you mystery suitor. You’re feeling a lot calmer about last night, it’s to be expected to be nervous in the presence of Odin after all.

“You know the king asked me to tell you he’d like another game.” Papa seems to be asking a question as he says it ( _Do you really want to little love? I can get you out of this_ ) but your mother positively beams.

So Odin wants to see you again tonight. Well, it’s not like you’ve other engagements.

“But, I played terribly.”

“You must have impressed him the first time, No? That private game I didn’t see.” The question lingers in his voice.

“Well it’s good to see you with a serious pursuit.” says Mother brightly and the utter ridiculousness makes you clench your fists under the table.

“I believe the king is lonely.” Papa adds with a sigh.

It can’t be that. Odin will ask about Loki. He’s going to ask and you cannot lie to your King. Not when the safety of the realm is in the balance. If Odin pushes you, you would betray your lover and the thought sickens you.


	23. Words don't come easily.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki does what he wants (NSFW)

In the throne room there is no one, not even a guard. They ushered you in here and left you alone.

It’s cold, even with the walls repaired now. Why did Odin invite you here rather than to the salon like last time? He is so changeable, so perplexing. And your different impressions of him simply don’t equate - the skilled swordsman, the over-ambitious experimenter, the frail and heartbroken old man…

Is he finally going to question you about Loki? Or could it be that your father is right, that Odin is lonely and that’s the reason for the invitations? You try not to think about anything else it could mean. Odin is impossible to read. You will know soon enough.

Instinctively you chose elegant and modest attire tonight and you’re glad. The room really is unnaturally chill and you’re glad to be well covered. You hope this is not where he intends for you to play. Surely someone will come soon and usher you to the royal apartments.

By the throne sits a glowing blue casket on a fine pedestal. It looks important. Why is it unguarded? You approach. The colors within it swirl, an iridescent blue, but also red. A familiar red.

The Aether, trapped, but fighting. You take a hurried step back just the great doors start to open at the other end of the hall and a figure emerges.

You forget the casket, forget everything. This is no royal servant come to fetch you.

It’s Loki.

He is magnificent. You don’t know where he has been but he looks dressed for a fight, with long his leathers and armor, and he’s heading straight for you. You start to run towards him.

You collide into an embrace, his hug so tight that it knocks the breath out of you. Everything about him is familiar, and achingly welcome – the strength of him, his smell, the folds of woven leather under your fingers.

His hair is damp, a few strands falling forward over his temples and his skin slightly flushed from the outdoors or as though he has been running. You wonder if he ran just now to be with you, for he has not hazarded upon you by chance. He came to find you.

You’ve no idea where you stand with him since that night of anger and hurt, but it doesn’t matter now.

He looks at you with a mix of relief and hunger and you’re kissing, then and there, before any words are spoken, and it’s so good and real that your worries can wait.

But… Think where you are and why!

“Stop.”

You’re fighting him to get words out and he’s chasing you with his mouth.

“But.” You manage.

“But what?” and there’s that joking lilt to his voice, like you never hurt him.

“Odin.” His expression doesn’t lose its playfulness. “We’re going to play chess.” You explain.

“No you’re not.” He speaks like it’s him who’s in charge and Odin will obey him.

“But guards will come.”

“No they won’t.” He seems to find this a tremendous joke and you wonder what he’s done. This nonchalance makes no sense after all his concerns for his secret.

“I’ve got a much better idea.” he adds and holds you closer to him, your face against the leather of his tunic.

Loki goes into battle well protected, his armor is enchanted and can only be pierced by other, stronger, magic. Most weapons do nothing to it. But to the touch it is nothing but supple leather that gives under your fingers. You feel sure he’s about to transport you somewhere by magic any moment so you close your eyes against the rush of vertigo.

But it doesn’t come. There’s only his hands, caressing and exploring. Finally he swings you into his arms and carries you physically to one of the couches, where he proceeds, between kisses, to start undressing you.

“Not here!” you protest, laughing nervously. But you’re losing the fight against your desire for him. How much you’ve missed him, missed this. And from the way he’s going Loki has too. Odin could appear at any moment and even if Loki’s survival is no news to him, this is not how you imagined him discovering about your relationship.

Loki’s hand slides up your thigh, pulling you flush against him. His other hand traces the front of your gown until it reaches your breasts. You both sink into the cushions and he teases your hair out from its ties until it falls around your shoulders. Then he slides his face up your neck to bury his nose beneath your ear.

Loki learned not long ago that there’s a little circle of soft skin behind your ear where, if he sucks, he transforms you into a helpless thing, completely in his power. Until now he hasn’t exploited it, saving it rather as a reward, a delicacy. But now he’s using it unfairly and you’re struggling to keep quiet.

He nudges your legs apart with an insistent knee.

“But… your father.”

“This is no time to be thinking about him.”

He hesitates a moment, choosing where to attack next, and your mouth goes dry. He hums and gives you a sly nod before nuzzling into your neck and mouthing his way down to your breast. Though the layer of petticoat left he sucks. It takes a moment to feel the heat and the wetness, the cloth moving against your sensitized skin. You arch into him but he backs away and looks at you, eyes dark and hair awry. With trembling hands you unlace the bodice of the petticoat. His gaze drops there, and he pulls it open. Once he has a breast uncovered he goes for it with his mouth lapping relentlessly while he touches the other to hardness. You just try to control your breathing as the sensations send shots of pleasure through the whole of you. Your body starts to move instinctively in rhythm against his where you feel his hardness and you wrap a leg around his waist, feeling yourself growing wet and the fear of discovery dissolving.

You want him to put his other hand where you need it the most. It’s not far away, presently clenching your ass. He starts to suck in earnest and you think you could come from that alone. You close your eyes.

Then, suddenly he pulls off, throws you a manic glance and latches onto the other breast where his fingers were toying just a moment ago. The sensation hits you so hard you almost cry out. Your outer clothes are strewn around you, but you’re not cold anymore. Loki meanwhile is fully clothed and you wouldn’t have the first idea of how to take off his battle dress. Besides, you are too close, virtually stuck together. You don’t know what else to do. You rub yourself against him. It’s barely a relief for you but he reacts with a deep moan of gratitude that goes right through you.

You do it again, pleased with his reaction. You don’t know how to get his clothes off and he isn’t cooperating, but it doesn’t seem to matter. He looks at you like you held the solutions to every enigma in the universe, when all you are doing is rutting against him half dressed.

The minute attentions of a moment ago are forgotten and he starts moving with you, moaning low and soft, eyes huge and wild. It makes you feel shaky just to think of your power here. You could ask him anything. But you won’t. You just want to watch him like this.

When he comes he close his eyes and a spasm goes though him from his toes to his brow which he rests on your shoulder as he continues to thrust. The hardness doesn’t relent and you I wonder how long he can keep on. You wonder how long before he can do magic again and get you out of here.

He gradually slows and sags into you, whispering a long lazy list of compliments. It’s almost sweet, if only you weren’t dreading discovery.

He nudges between you thighs and, despite everything, a thrill goes through you. “Got to do something about that.” he mumbles between breaths. “I’m going to repay the favor.” And then his hand is right there, hard and warm and exactly right. But…

“We’ve got to get out of..” As you say it, there a creak as the door at the end of the room starts to swing open, but Loki just flings his coat over the both of you and shushes in your ear ending with a swallowed giggle. You’re instantly cloaked in a clear blue haze and you guess - you hope - that you are invisible.

You can hear the voices beyond the door. Worse still you can recognize one of them.

“Your majesty, the gatekeeper, Heimdall”

Panic grips you. It’s not from the prospect of discovery but from the realization that whether he enters the room or not, Heimdall surely already knows everything.

But no one come. There’s is a long pause and the murmur of voices

“The gatekeeper, Heimdall….”

There’s another pause and then.

“…will not see you at present.”

The door swings shut.

Loki throws himself back on the couch and laughs.

“Heimdall can see us?” you breathe.

“Not, as such.”

“What does that mean? Loki! What did you do?”

But he’s grinning at you and it has nothing to do with whatever mischief he pulled on Heimdall.

“It’s not so much what I did.” He answers, eyes falling to your lips, “but what I’m going to do.”

He draws you to him and then and only then do you feel the rush of transportation take you both.

 

 

 

 

You land in a heap of furs, cushioned, not as expected by the mattress of a bed, but by the bounce of air, you’re not in your room but in a flying skiff. What? Loki has landed you in a boat. For a moment you think something has gone horribly wrong as a wind is blowing and you shiver violently in your unclothed state.

He rolls out from under you and wraps his coat around you , then gives you some furs which you add. “Why? Where?...”

But he’s taken the helm already and you’re speeding over the open water, the craft unlit and invisible.

“Where are we going?”

He doesn’t reply, so taken with flying the boat as close to the water and as fast as possible. The wind whips your words away as you try again so you yell them.

He leans in exuding gleeful satisfaction.

“Somewhere you can scream as loud as you want and no one will hear.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

When he cuts the power there’s a dark shape looming over the water and with wild suddenly drops, most of it was in the boats movement. It’s not much warmer though.

Despite this, Loki strips magically and in a second he’s in the water and has disappeared. How can he bear the cold? He cannot be expecting you to do the same. You look up at the shadow above you, the outline of an island. The light from the stars doesn’t let you see much, there’s high craggy cliffs and you can hear waves hitting what sounds like a beach not far off.

“Loki?”

Not a sign of him in the water.

“Loki! Come back here.” Then, louder, when there’s no reaction, “I want some answers.”

He breaks the surface, and you help him into the the skiff, soaking yourself from his wet skin in the process.

“Just getting the key.” he says mildly, as though that explained things. He seems unbothered by the cold, just shaking the water off and slipping his coat over his naked skin.

“Does Odin know?” That stops him short. It breaks the mood for sure but you can’t go on in doubt.

“That we’re here? why no!” His amusement is audible.

“That you’re alive. Loki.” You say calmly.

There’s a pause before he replies and though you can’t see his face properly you sense a change. “Why, of course, the Allfather needs me more than he ever has.”

You heave an internal sigh of relief.

“Does he know about me, I mean about you and me?” You’re pushing it you know, it’s like asking if he’s serious about you - as if you hadn’t already had ample proof - but if you’ve got to play the role of his accomplice in what ever this game is, then you need all the info he can give you.

“No,” he says as he turns to power up the engine once more. “That’s _our_ secret.”

 

 

 

 

 

The craft hovers over the shingle and you step ashore with a crunch into the pebbles. The waves keep up their eternal music as Loki leads you up the short beach up toward where you can make out a small building against the cliff.

It doesn’t look like anything special, were it not for it peculiar location. Perhaps an abandoned fisherman’s cottage?

When Loki fits the key in the lock though the house lights up like he’d flipped a switch. He runs in, leaving you to follow. You pull the door to behind you and find a tiny but cosy interior, warm and inviting, nothing like the dank hovel you were expecting.

The walls are hung with nets its true, but they are decorated, just bits and bobs, shells and other worthless treasures. Loki tears up a narrow stairway at the back of the room and you hear him throwing back the shutters above you and the sounds of the ocean coming in once more.

This place is lived in. Above all it is clean, the floor, table and windows and there are pots on a stove in the corner, which when you approach you feel is warm. Is this Loki’s hideout? Could this be where he goes? Its comfy, but lonely out here. Out of the window there is nothing but night. During the daytime, there must be nothing but the watery horizon.

“Come.” says Loki from the stairs. You see he’s exchanged his coat for a soft robe of a similar color, but is still just as naked underneath. You follow him to the chamber above. It’s more austere here, just a bed and an open window, the rush of the waves below and the curtains billowing like flags in and out of the house. He moves to close it now you are here but you stop him.

“Leave them. I like it.” After so much waiting, you suddenly feel alive again, the bite of the air, the sounds here - so different from the city - and the wild dance of the unleashed drapes in and out of the tender light of the bedchamber.

Loki tightens his grip on your hand.

“Why are we hiding?” you prompt.

He goes to kiss you and you pull back an instant, hoping that there’s enough light to show him your face.

“So no one can see me do this!” he says, determined, and he sets about tickling you until you are squirming and helpless with laughter. He scoops you up and lays you on the bed. “Now. Where were we?” You fight to calm your breathing while he peels away your damp clothes and leaves kisses in their place, covering each inch of skin meticulously. So dedicated is he to his task that not another word is spoken and your nervy breathlessness is soon replaced by another kind of excitement without your heart slowing for an instant.

He never says he’s sorry for that last time, neither do you for that matter, but its as though he wants to make it up to you and you are all too willing to accept. The built up tension from before, the joy to find him again and the feeling of this new place chase away your other cares. When he finally enters you it’s with the rhythm of the waves behind him, the force of the ocean carrying you both for a delicious unmeasurable time, leaving you beached on a strange shore, the warmth of a dear one close and the sounds of the waves fading in your ears.

 

 

 

 

 


	24. I want to be the one who walks in the sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imagine Loki making love to you in public while invisible.

Sometime in the small hours you rise, careful not to wake Loki from where he’s untidily and contentedly sprawled in the middle of the bed, and creep out in search of the bathroom. The light of dawn is only just hinting and you pull the window closed against the cold.

You edge along the wall, back past the bed, looking for a door, it must be here, you don’t remember any other rooms downstairs. But there’s nothing up here either. How come? What kind of house has no bathroom?

A poor person’s.

The wall is rough under your fingers and the air damp. So this was where Loki was hiding out. Better than prison, but desolate in another way.

You’re going to have to go outside, find the outhouse perhaps, the idea makes you shudder. You take a step toward the stairs but at that moment, Loki rolls over and you collide with a leg that he unknowingly stretches out in your path. The bed really is too small. He growls in complaint. “What?”

“I was just going to the bathroom.”

“Over there.” He points blindly, without raising his head and you see it. A door in the angle of the corner you could have sworn wasn’t there earlier. You step through and find everything there is just like home. Why did you doubt?

It’s only when dawn and wakefulness come for real, and Loki’s urging you to ready yourself to go back, scooping you up and pulling you downstairs that you see clearly that there is no door in the corner of the room, merely a table with a washstand and ewer. You don’t ask.

 

 

 

 

He stops the skiff just outside the city waters, and you float, swaddled in morning mist. The skiff becomes an ordinary vessel, bobbing on the water. Apart from the fog-bleared lights of Asgard, you could be the only beings in the universe. It's chill, but you have the furs. He uncovers a box with bread, cheese and fruit, which you share. The bread is warm, like he just got it from the kitchens. Perhaps he did.

How much of this did he plan? How much did he magic up in an instant? It doesn’t matter. You watch each other eat, a comforting reminder he’s real.

"I wish we could see each other in the day sometime." you say. You were only thinking romantically, it wasn't even a demand. But he sighs and doesn't answer and you feel a new tenseness in the atmosphere.

“What’s going to happen?” you ask,

“I don’t know.”

The most terrifyingly honest of answers.

“What about Thor?” you ask, emboldened. It’s a question you expect him to rebuff “ _What about Thor?”_ But instead he bursts out laughing.

“Oh Thor, my valiant brother. As usual, he’s protecting the realm of Midgard against great and terrible foes… its own mightiest heroes, in fact”

With that he has to struggle to stop laughing, while you look on blankly.

“Oh, I couldn't have done better myself!” he says. Then he sees your lost look and starts to explain “Oh. two of Thor’s mortal friends had a baby.” He wipes tears from his eyes. “Or rather a brain child. And now it’s trying to take over the planet and my dear brother is once more saving the day.”

“Does he know you’re alive??”

Loki's gaiety disappears abruptly.

“No.” Loki looks away, into the mist. Not starting at anything, just not looking at you. “Like I said, he’s busy.”

You don’t press. But you wouldn’t put it past Loki to jump out on Thor one day as a really bad joke and there’s not much you can do to prevent it.

 

 

 

 

You have time to make things look almost normal that morning, the time to return home so you can wash up and change at least. But fear has been growing like a knot in your stomach since Loki left you, setting you down the edge of the high esplanade, before speeding off into the mist.

What about Odin? Your disappearance would surely have been noted.

You open the door to your chambers you notice a familiar smell, sweet, like freesias.

It _is_ freesias.

On the low table there is a broad vase filled with them. You’re confused a moment but then you see there’s a note.

In the same sure hand as the invitation of so many weeks ago, the king apologises for his absence the night before - he was called away on urgent state business.

You want to heave that sigh of relief, want your stomach to unknot, but now there’s something else worrying at it. How did he know you liked Freesias, that they’re your favorite.

 

 

 

 

You try to start the day as usual, but the question haunts you. Could it simply be because he is the Allfather?

You wonder if Loki will be like Odin in later life.

Sometimes you try to imagine you and he growing old together, but nothing of what you have with Loki has the wisdom of age. Every time you try to imagine the far future, you see yourself alone.

You get the tiniest glimpses of yourselves as a kind of Odin and Frigga. You hope that you would be as elegant as she. You try to imagine Loki's expressions emphasised by time, his hair white, and wonder what you would be to each other. You have never imagined anyone like this. And now you do and it's with one of the most unpredictable, volatile of men. Is that it. You never sought stability and it's not Loki who'll give it to you.

The heat of your relationship is hardly something built to last and there are times when you think it is all you will ever have. When you start thinking like that, the fleeting images of that older couple slip away.

 

 

 

 

Hornace is leaving just as he promised he would. But he makes a point of coming to say farewell and thank you personally. He’s happier than you’ve seen him since the accident but there’s a clear tension about the future.

“I’ve learnt all I can here, and I can hardly say it’s been boring.” He reflects.

It's true he was here for the attack of the dark elves too, when all he probably expected was quiet study.

“But I hope, for you all" he adds, "that Asgard stays ‘boring’ as long as possible.” He gives a little smile. “But I’m sure you’d be able to handle anything.”

When the flash in the sky shows the bifrost working from afar you realise he's gone and with him another chance. You wish suddenly, crazily that you'd shared your story with him. What harm would it have done? He’s off world now. He would have shaken his head at the craziness of Asgard and certainly not have shared your secret. But you weren't even tempted. Holding your silence has become second nature.

You feel a presence behind you on the balcony and turn but there's no one. You can hear healers voices, not far away just in the next room. But its not that. You know what is it, who it is. Someone very familiar. Invisible, like last night.

“Show yourself!” you say.

He doesn’t, but you’re surer than ever than he’s there. It's in the movement of the air, you’re blocked from the light movement of the wind. And there’s a hint of warmth. Not a sound though and the view is unobstructed.

Thats why you don’t even jump when you feel his arm around you.

And his hand… slipping into your pocket.

 

 

 

 

Loki leads you away from the healing rooms, guiding you with one arm around your waist, his hand still in your pocket. It feels familiar, affectionate, this closeness, but no one else can see him. So you force yourself to walk as though alone - not leaning into him as you would want, nor leaving too much space to one side as you pass through a doorway. You have to pretend he isn't there, that he's your own personal illusion.

As you make your way across the courtyard, struggling to act normal, who should there be but Asta and Dagny. And from the way they look at you they know something is off. Asta's eyes flick away the instant they settle on you, while Dagny gazes on as though in awe. Your heart stops and your feet freeze. It's like they can see Loki. This is it. Loki makes to step forward, pulling you with him but you stay where you are then falls back by your side, silent.

"Hi." Your voice sounds dead. Asta chances a glimpse at you, her eyes still unreadable, while Dagny smiles nervously.

"Hi." They say in unison, as weakly as you.

Whatever's got into them, it’s something else. It's you Dagny's looking at, not the tall handsome, but totally invisible, figure at your side. They both look troubled. What do they see? You're still standing there and no one says anything. At least they don't try to drag you away for something, to whisper some tidbit of gossip or pushing you for some. There's no pulling on your arm to come see a new dress or enjoy a snack together. You're thankful, but you're worried too, and guilty about how you’ve lied to them, your annoyance at Loki rises a notch.

They embarrassedly try to cover their discomfort, badly. Then pull away, but not before Asta touches your arm and meets your eyes again, this time you read concern. But you are already smiling, brushing them off as you feel they brushed you. You feel a pang as they go, but Loki draws you in closer.

It’s lonelier up on the battlements, just him and you and the wild autumn air.

Against your leg you feel the cold of a blade. He's got a knife and he's cut the fabric at the bottom of the pocket. You want to be outraged, but instead all you feel is rising trepidation. He’s cut a way in. Then the knife is gone and instead there are his fingers, like you knew there would be, delving, exploring, ever so slowly approaching their goal, to reach the core of you without disturbing a layer of fabric on the outside. He’s not standing close enough to you to change the way your dress hangs, but his hand is going deeper. You hold yourself taut, knowing that for appearances you mustn't flinch.

Though he says not a word, though you can’t even hear him breathe, the moves are so familiar. He knows what you like. First he caresses you through the fabric of your underclothes. Then he teases with the tips of his fingers, fighting their way around the cloth. He’s not really going to do this? Is he? But why else are you still here. Why hasn’t he whisked you off already. Because he won’t. He’s going to make you suffer for your pleasure. Experimentally he pushes one fingertip deeper, sliding into your hot wetness. Though you want to gasp you hold it in, hold your breathe. The heat inside doubles. You keep your expression unchanged, unruffled, though the wave of weakness that washes over you makes you think you might faint it this goes any further. Well then Loki would just have to catch you.

He crooks his finger and you repress a shudder, sway on you feet a little and close your eyes a second. Then open them, scared you showed something. But there’s no one here. Not until the next patrol passes.

He lets you calm down, your heart rate slow, your breathing become normal, though nothing will calm the fire within. Then, gently and meticulously, he continues.

To a casual observer you are all alone, but all the time he has you, twisted around his finger. Your world narrowed to that point where his able fingers are undoing you from the inside, while you try to stay as unruffled as a porcelain doll. Your efforts multiply the sensation and he knows it. You are burning up inside, concentrating on breathing normally when it’s getting difficult to remember how.

“Don’t move.” he says.

This is it, he’s going to kill you with this. You’re so wound up standing still is getting difficult.

“Can we go?”

“I thought you were enjoying… the view.” He murmurs in your ear.

You want to curse, you want to throw him on the ground and have your way with him. You might look as though you are standing alone, admiring the landscape and tasting the wild sea air blowing off the waves, but in reality you couldn’t care less about this place or time, and the only purpose of the breeze is to cool your heated blood.

Part of you wants to hold out. Holding out is what’s making it all the better, even though you want release like nothing in the world. You want to hold out longer than him, until he has to take you home without you begging.

Why here?

_I wish we could see each other in the day sometime._

Did you bring this on yourself _._

You hear a sound behind you. Footsteps, is it a patrol? It would be expected that they pass here soon or later. Would it be normal that you looked over at them, or would it? Loki has stopped, he withdraws his hand even. You feel its loss with regret, so he doesn't want to play it quite that dangerous - you're almost disappointed, but it helps you calm yourself. Once you feel composed turn your head. And every trace of lust evaporates in an instant.

“Papa!”

The simple sight of him snaps you out of the grip of desire and into that of shame. Though your heart’s still racing.

He frowns at you. Surely its not that obvious, if you are flushes it might be from the wind. No he’s got that worried look, just like Asta. How much did he see? Surely he'd notice something’s amiss if not what it was. Papa simply knows you too well.

And you were going to tell him.

Loki removed his hand like he'd burnt it the second your father appeared but he's still standing there at your back.

"I'm so glad I found you." Papa says and there's his familiar loving smile. But underneath it he looks uncomforatble. Like the girls but a hundredfold worse. He doesn't elaborate and the silence lengthens.

"What I mean is. If there's anything you want to talk about..."

You smile and shake your head, words trapped in your throat and Loki's hand snaking out to squeeze your arm.

"I mean, if you are happy then that’s what’s important, but if there is...something... happening that is not what you want then you can always come to me. However, whenever I will find a way to get you out of it.”

You nod, perplexed, and he reaches forward to take you in his arms. Loki releases you.

You are confused by his words, angry with yourself and angry at the stupidity of Loki’s being there and yet not being there.

There’s a resignation in Papa's face as he pulls back and looks at you.

You were going to tell him the truth and if he already knows it then the chance is lost you are swamped with guilt: you lied to him as you did to everyone with your silence. And now he knows…something. He doesn’t look upset as you might expect or shocked. More like sad. You swear to yourself you will find him later. You have to explain.

It’s then that the patrol themselves arrives, jogging in formation and a change comes over him. You must have imagined the sadness, now he looks more happy, proud.

"I must be getting on."

You make to follow but what more can you say. Loki grabs your wrist. If you pulled he’d let you go. You waver. If this means the truth is out then you have to talk to Loki.

As your father’s shape disappears along the walkway and the soldiers round the corner out of sight on the other direction, you turn toward where Loki must be standing.

"Show yourself." you hiss.

He takes the other wrist in his other hand. He says nothing but draws you to him and then you’re flying through nothingness and landing in a whirl in your chambers.

“Tell me what’s going on. How does Papa know?”

“Love?” Loki whispers, not releasing you but caressing your back. You know he’ll try to seduce you again.

“No.” You say pulling back. "I should have told him myself"

“He knows nothing." Loki says innocently.

“How do you know?”

He trails a caress down your arm.

“You know him, you know I’m right. Everything will be fine.”

You want to trust him but you’re feeling too mixed up, guilty about Papa. And Loki just wants to take you to bed again. And then of course he’ll disappear again. Your anger is rising and you don’t want another fight.

"No, I..." You pull away.

Loki lets you go but, still giddy from the flying you teeter on your feet. He goes to steady you, his gaze heated, but you pull away. Before you can give in, you stumble out though the bathroom and onto the balcony, slamming the door behind you and leaning back on it.

You’re sure he will follow you. You wait for his knock on the inside of the door, trying to gather your resolve not to give in to him.

It never comes.

 

 

 

 

 


	25. Once upon a time there was light in my life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mostly what happens in the bedroom. And a few surprises.

You don’t expect Loki to still be in your quarters when you finally come in from the balcony.

You wait until you’ve calmed down, till you’ve sucked back the tears from the brink. You’re battling a furious mix of frustration and self-directed anger. What if you’d told Papa back there. You half wish you had. He’d have believed you too, but then what would Loki have done? Evaporated to never be seen again?

You feel like he’s toying with you and you’ve been too blinded by desire to see it. He’s not serious and this masquerade will go on until the day you’re caught.

Could that be that he wants?

It's a long time before your blood has cooled and by then you're more sad than anything else.

You lied again, if only by omission, and feel more trapped than ever. Papa’s words you don’t recall exactly, but he was offering help. And you lied to him.

You creep back through the bathroom and push the door to the bedroom.

Loki is very much still there. You stop, short, shocked at the sight.

He’s completely naked, standing right in the middle of the room. Though he’s facing away from you, his hands stretched up above his head, you are sure he knows you’re there.

Your eyes follow his long legs, the elegant curve of his hips and up his back, pausing on the scar. He’s waiting for a reaction and then you realize what’s odd.

He’s tied his own hands from the ceiling, doubtless by magic, and it pulls him up so that he seems even taller than usual.

“Loki?”

What is this?

He just laughs. Nothing’s wrong. He intended this.

He turns enough that you see his face and that's when you also see he has a strip of black satin covering his eyes.

Not entirely naked then.

You take a gulp of air, your focus suddenly realigned.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

His hands are attached just high enough to force him onto his toes. He shifts constantly to maintain his balance. It looks uncomfortable, but then he put himself there and could surely break free in an instant if he chose to.

"Guess." he says hoarsely. “Use your imagination.” you watch him swallow. His own is definitely already at work.

“I trust you. Just. Do as you feel with me.”

This blows away every prior thought, or rather the frustration and anger might just have found an outlet.

You think you know what this is now. Loki doesn’t ever apologize outright. This much you’ve learnt. He half tortured you with pleasure earlier, not to mention the humiliation. And now he’s offering you some sort of revenge in kind.

If he weren’t blindfolded, he’d see how this throws you off balance, how it makes you fluster and blush to the roots of your hair.

He probably knows though, that’s why he grins so as he swings around in your direction. It makes you want to take him down a peg or two.

Then, you know exactly what you are going to do. Silently you step over and take the quill from your desk.

You creep up and, without touching him anywhere else, start to stroke the feather over one of his nipples, making him hiss and shudder. You concentrate on flicking the one nipple repeatedly until it’s pebbled and hard and its twin has done the same in sympathy. You know you’ve got him thinking of your first time, of what this did to you, commanding the feather by magic, and that such thoughts amplify his own reactions. He twists and shivers under your ministrations. With half his face hidden you can’t see his reaction but he certainly lets you hear it, making little ‘oh-oh-ohs’, sighs, whimpers, while you calmly paint his skin with the feather.

You don’t relent. Loki makes gasps of growing intensity until it’s too much and he starts to swing himself from his bonds, trying to trap you with his legs.

You just dodge, taking advantage of the fact he can’t see you. He has given you the advantage, but when you laugh he knows exactly where you are and he’s so quick that he nearly catches you. He blindly knocks over a chair and kicks the sofa in his efforts and you start to wonder if the ceiling will hold.

You back away, out of reach. Then, giving no warning, you lunge and catch him instead, burying your face in his belly and nipping. It works far better than you could have expected. He lets out a bitten off cry and comes almost instantly all over the both of you, dragging in air between spasms and letting out a broken stream of praise and curses till finally he utters a word you don’t recognize at all. His bonds break and he falls into your arms, all but knocking you over.

You sag under his weight and gently slip together to the floor, where you untie the blindfold. Underneath you see an expression still more naked than the rest of him. He looks totally unguarded and lost. When you notice the tracks of tears you want to put the slip of cloth right back for modesty’s sake, but fascination stays your hand.

“Loki, do really like being…?” You wave the blindfold a second, “…bound, helpless.” It seems incredible, given the way he’s capable of utterly owning you physically.

“Not in the slightest.” He says, regaining some composure. It sounds offhand but contradicts all immediate evidence. “I’m never helpless.” He the last word ends in a dirty chuckle that goes right through you. Then, more seriously, he says, “I only want to give myself to you.”

There follows a clean up session of decadent proportions, involving two successive baths - the first time you dried one another things became too heated and finished in full out lovemaking on the bathroom floor. You didn’t realize how wound up you were just from watching him, how easily he could tip the balance.

Afterwards, as you lie on the bed, his head pillowed on your stomach, his expression hidden from you, he promises you will see your parents and Odin together. Then he shifts up nuzzles into your neck, holding you, and whispering about how it will all be alright, he’ll see to it.

You’re infused with relief, even though he sounds apprehensive, or perhaps because of he does - who wouldn’t be?

This is a major victory, even though he has made no mention of when such a meeting might happen. It’s finally going to happen. You’re going to make this real. Loki will announce his return to the world and it will be the end of all the hiding and lying and weirdness. The future is vertiginous with possibilities.

You go about thanking him and celebrating it all at the same time, your movements slow but not hesitant. You don’t want to talk of it more. It’s scary. You want to show him through kisses and touches, how pleased you are that finally, finally you’re going to take this step together.

It’s supposed to be affectionate rather than passionate, but soon kissing isn’t enough. He reaches his hand lower and you willingly accept. Then fixing you in the eye he smirks.

“How many times, I wonder?” he asks in a voice feigning innocence.

“What?” though you think you’ve guessed;

“How many times could I make you come in one night?”

It sounds loving, cheeky. It’s a romantic idea.

In practice, it’s a crazy idea. If you thought he was trying to kill you out there on the battlements that was nothing.

He starts gently, fingers and lips all over you. He’s painstakingly careful not to do anything to hurt you and with his own lust sated he’s fully in control. Usually you’re satisfied with once, impressed with any more, but even alone you have never experimented to know where the limit lies.

Then, with his tongue pressed deep inside you, he caresses your breasts blindly but exquisitely above his head. You have a view of the top of his head but, when he looks up and gives you a flash of those eyes, your whole body jolts. His gaze pins you emotionally, if you weren’t already pinned physically.

Your body knows the way, when he re-engages, the expectation is there, the path beaten, this time you race down it into the wall of orgasm.

“You are just so lovely like this.” He murmurs as you lay there panting.

He is dedicated to his mission but you as you come down and his caresses resume, you also start to have a creepy feeling that this is a kind of experiment for him. The fascination in his face is more than sexual, its academic, which is not to say it isn’t carnal or that perhaps it’s even more erotic because his intellectual curiosity is piqued as well.

You are like some specimen he has collected and is now playing with. You try hard not to think of boys and the terrible tortures they subject insects to. Fortunately he choses that moment to bite you on the hip in passing and all such ideas disappear.

He moves you onto you side and works from behind you, hidden, reduced to the sensation he creates and his words. When you cry out raggedly, he hushes you like an animal that needs to be calmed. You don’t need to be calmed. Not at all, you want more of him, but most of all the part of him that’s scheming and reasoning and watching, a step back from what he’s actually doing.

You want to make _him_ lose it and watch it happen, now that would be beautiful.

You close your eyes imagining that happening, him coming, that half troubled look he gets sometimes, just before… That’s what pushes you over the edge again, and this time its like you keep on falling.

You can hear him telling you how good you are how beautiful you are, how he loves to see you like this and all the time he persists, stimulating you any way he can until it happens again and you shudder, grasping the sheets the air, anything.

Bit by bit he’s chasing away your thought and reason, until there is only the want and the living, writhing, growing thing that drags you toward another climax. Oversensitive and eager, it gets easier and easier for you to fall over that edge, the reality of the situation is slipping away, and as he comes into view he seems enthralled.

And all the time he denies himself. It waits there, like so much latent anger, ready to trap him. Your altered state gives you an odd kind of clarity, one focused on him alone. Under the surface is something driving him, something angry, something hurt. It’s like a need to lay waste. It would be frightening were it not for your utter trust, instead you feel a thrill.

When watching you has become too much he pins you to the wall with magic so that you are suspended just inches from the floor. You feel weightless. Like this, his hands free to fondle you as he takes you. He’s never been so demanding, nor so giving and the moment he enters you is pure bliss. Your world narrows to your own heat, everything stemming from that one place he’s now relentlessly plundering. It’s like all that went before was nothing but a prelude to this.

He’s being loud but you don’t understand his words, it’s just noise but the tone is one of adulation. On and on it goes, so that there are no long peaks and valleys but a never-ending plateau of pleasure.

But then gives a broken cry unlike any you’ve heard from him yet and you wonder through the fog in your mind if he’s alright and try pull him to you, though your limbs are too weak to obey and he just leans on you shaking. You can feel the carpet under you feet, though you don’t recall him breaking the spell. You croon to him and stroke and kiss him until he calms, his body damp with sweat against your and still sparking reactions wherever you touch.

You struggle back to the bed and lie silent a moment. Its not the warm lethargy you expected, more an insatiable over-awareness. It’s a floating dreamlike state where you feel cushioned from everything but where the slightest touch anywhere on your body is almost too much. Loki strokes your hand touching the fingers one by on and you twist yourself against him. It feels like like the most intimate thing he could be doing when he’s only caressing your little finger.

“You’re unstoppable.” he sighs, tucked under your arm and the vibrations of the words go through you like waves

“I lost count.” you say, surprised you can still form words. It feels like an apology, but question really makes no sense anymore. He seems to take it as a complement though and pulls you closer. You can feel a pleasurable vibration from him like he was humming to you. After a few moments you realize he is softly snoring.

 

 

 

 

 

You sleep late, unbothered by the sunlight creeping behind the curtains, and wake alone, of course. You’ve all but missed the morning and you’re ravenous.

You move slowly, full of delicious aches and pains. There’s no chance that you could catch Loki if you had to run after him today. But then you guess he isn’t moving too quickly this morning either and that idea makes you smile.

But still he was up and about before you and evaded all discussion of the meeting with Odin and your parents. The idea of it makes you nervous too, despite your readiness.

One thing at a time then. First you’ll see Papa, right away if you can. You’ll explain everything that’s happened and put yesterday right. That way, he’ll ease the way with Mother. Her reaction to your ‘beau’s’ identity you cannot predict. When it comes to seeing Odin he’ll help too. You’ll have an ally. However you decide you’ve no need to mention Loki’s presence yesterday.

When you emerge from your chambers it’s clear there’s something special going on. There’s flags out and music coming from the main esplanade. The palace gates are open and everyone in sight is busy going places, carrying things, food especially, decorations, what looks like parts of a movable stage/ You’ve been so distracted lately that if an event planned for today then you completely missed knowing what it is and you’ve been so occupied that you wouldn’t have heard it on the grapevine.

But from the atmosphere this doesn’t look prepared. There’s stress as well as bustle, a kind of hyperactive excitement. What’s all the fuss about? An unexpected visit perhaps. Has Odin finally invited the elven dignitaries? Your mind falls again to that face, ‘her’. You can’t let this complicate things.

Papa is not in the treasury as you hoped. No doubt he is taken with the preparations too.

The advantage of the hubbub is that no one pays attention to you and you simply observe. Odin must be busy with the visitors, and Loki is who knows where. You feel a bit peaked. There’s little chance you’ll be able to them both today. You wander about in rather in a haze for while, beset by flashes, of last night.

There are hastily erected marquees and the inevitable bunting in the marketplace and the central city seems invaded by stalls and hawkers of all kinds like on a public holiday.

You buy yourself a pasty, a large one, and devour it with relish there in the street while the vendor, chubby and raucous in a straining striped apron, watches. Because you were clearly enjoying it and hadn’t bothered moving away from the stall as you ate, he embarrassingly draws attention to you as he calls out to all and sundry about how tasty his wares are.

“What’s the big event?” you interrupt between mouthfuls, glad to see Asgard looking more like its old self. The semblance of normality and joyous atmosphere help you to set your mind on something else for a moment than your concerns and the ghosts of Loki’s touches.

“The prince has returned.” You stop munching and stare at him. Already? Loki has revealed his survival to the whole of Asgard while you were sleeping! You grin and nearly drop the food.

“He has prevailed over the forces of darkness and the King is throwing a party. But _you_ come from the palace, didn’t you know?”

You laugh nervously. “I slept late and missed the news.”

You take another large bite, a good excuse to to answer any questions.

“They say he’s brought the mortal.” He says behind his hand. “So, there could be another reason to celebrate…” he goes on excitedly, so focused on imparting the news that he pays no attention to your evident confusion. “A royal engagement!”

“The mortal?” You say dumbly.

“The Lady Jane.”

You rally. He’s talking about Thor, of course he’s talking about Thor. But Loki had said Thor was busy defending Midgard.

“Already!?” It must have been an easy triumph. You don’t know if it’s relief for Thor or disappointment that this is not Loki’s celebration.

“Well they don’t live so long do they? He can’t afford to hang around.”

 

 

 

 

 

You half-heartedly look for Asta, checking your favorite haunts while the crowd swells around you. You want to have it out with her about yesterday. Although you can’t tell her the truth yet, at least you can find out what’s got into her, what she meant by that parting look.

You make your way back to the palace. It might even be better like this, like this not all the focus will be on Loki when he reappears. On second thoughts something tells you he might prefer not to share the attention with Thor. You only wonder why Loki and Odin hadn’t told Thor already about Loki’s survival. Perhaps that’s where Loki is now, seeing his brother, but who knows how things really stand between those two.

Back within the palace walls you make for Asta’s quarters but your path is blocked by a group of courtiers moving toward the throne room. Papa is not among them, but mother is! She spots you at the very same moment you see her.

The group is murmuring nervously, obviously about to see the King, you want to back off, but Mother gives an excited cry on seeing you and runs over.

To your embarrassment, everyone stares as she hugs you demonstratively and calls you her dear girl, which is almost unknown for her - how can this day get any stranger? - before thankfully pulling you away into a cloistered walkway.

“Well, you certainly know how to keep a secret. To think.”

So that’s it. Loki really didn’t wait for you. But a least you think, taking in her jubilance and shining eyes, she not unhappy with the idea. You think you can forgive him.

“We would never have guessed. But what wondrous news.” She pulls back and holds you at arms length just looking you over and smiling, glowing almost. “I am so proud. Who would have thought, my little girl, a queen.”

“What?! But…” You had thought perhaps that Thor’s prolonged absence on Midgard might mean he no longer wanted the throne but there was nothing official. That would have left no heir. But now there was Loki. And if you were with Loki…

“I admit I did fear it was a bit soon. But there’s no time like the present. Just what Asgard needs, some good news. You’ll make the family proud and the nation strong. When will you announce your engagement?”

“Engagement?!”.

Mother hushes you. “I knew it was serious when I saw you at the armory. You just didn’t have the words to tell me. Did you.” She’s being infuriatingly condescending. “But you know, you weren’t very discreet were you now!!”

“We were seen? People know?”

“Your little secret is out, or should I say your big secret - The king was seen outside your chambers.”

The King!!!

“No!!!”

Not Loki but Odin? You don’t speak out a second time, the shock and incomprehension on your face is enough to stop her.

“Oh ho.” This seems to make her even happier. “You thought you’d kept it quiet?”

“I’m not-”

“Oh I know you’re weren’t galavanting and Odin would not… treat a woman that way.”

“We played chess, what twice, and Papa was even there the second time.” you protest.

“Chess, that’s a sweet way to put it.” And she smiles even more patronizing, this time with a glint in her eye. She has always been an affirmed royalist, and despite Odin’s crazy experiments she still seems to support him wholeheartedly. “I’m glad you have finally shown sufficient brains to make a good marriage. Well, not just good.” She adds tapping you affectionately on the arm “The finest.”

“The king was not in my chambers, if he was seen near my rooms it’s because he sleepwalks.”

She looks like nothing you say will change her course and knowing this bit of information on Odin’s nocturnal habits has done nothing for your case.

“You think that-” You try again but you can’t say it because you don’t want to picture it. She thinks you’re sleeping with Odin. The sheer idea… You just want her to disappear, for something to come and save you, for Loki to appear and sweep you away, for Papa…

And then in your mind everything falls into place - his concern yesterday! and Asta and Dagny’s behavior. The rumor must have gone right around the palace.

At that moment the doors to the throne room open, but instead of the crowd going in, Thor strides out, resplendent in his best red ceremonial robes and full regalia and flanked by a dozen guards.

He looks around and his eyes fall on you.

“You.” he says without even saying your name, and your mother takes an audible intake of breath. There’s not an ounce of friendliness in Thors’s expression, not the slightest shadow of the old camaraderie.

“I would speak with you.” His gaze sears through you. All the more severe for coming from one you thought you knew well.

You take a step forward and mother does too, glued to your side.

“Alone.”


End file.
